tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35859697237283843132018-03-01T13:34:22.883-08:00Plainly PaganThe Quaker Journal of a Rural NeuroticHysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-3375148251233892862018-01-13T06:25:00.000-08:002018-01-13T06:25:02.097-08:00In Which I Remember Grandma Two Years After Her DeathTwo years after her death, my grandmother, with whom I lived for many years, is often in my thoughts.&nbsp; The other day, I found her Bible improbably pushed off its place on a shelf and onto the floor.&nbsp; I lifted it up to look inside to find, in her spidery handwriting, a note about a gift she gave to my husband when he joined the Masons.&nbsp; Reading her note put me in mind of that time when I, hoping to please her,&nbsp; had also joined Eastern Star, the women's auxiliary to the Masons.&nbsp; My husband and I thought this would give me an opportunity to spend time with Grandma, a devoted member of Eastern Star.&nbsp; It was my way of doing something "grown-up" with her. <br /><br />My timing was off.&nbsp; Grandma was recently widowed and began to withdraw from many of the social functions that had characterized younger years.&nbsp; She immediately stopped going to formal meetings after walking me through my first (and as it turned out, last) Eastern Star function.&nbsp; Even so, despite me being a member of her beloved Eastern Star in name only, she said to me, with both pride and affection, "Now we are sisters!"<br /><br />Later, my husband, children, and I moved into my grandmother's house where we all lived for many years.&nbsp; She was getting old and my children were very young. She and I both struggled with limited agency and movement.&nbsp; When all the other adults in the house went off to their jobs, meetings, and ramblings, Grandma and I were home with the little ones where we were able to help each other with all the little problems of life.&nbsp; In those years, she gave me guidance as a senior and experienced mother of six, grandmother of thirteen, and great-grandmother of&nbsp; ten. Her very presence in my life relieved my anxieties.&nbsp; It inspired my confidence to have the attention of the unquestioned family matriarch.&nbsp; She modeled femininity, authority, and&nbsp; care, and taught me how to be a woman and a mother.&nbsp; <br /><br />But it was more than that.&nbsp; It was more than her guidance and benevolence, as worthy and valuable as those gifts were.&nbsp; In those years, I also had her friendship.&nbsp; We laughed together and stayed up late talking and telling stories. It was as if I had discovered that the queen herself was a pal.&nbsp; But Grandma was a very formal person.&nbsp; One did not hug my grandmother.&nbsp; One might be permitted to place one's hands lightly on her shoulders, lean forward and give her a ritualistic parting kiss, but that was the extent of any physical embrace.&nbsp; One could say to her, in parting, "I love you, Grandma" and hear in return a cheerful chuckle or, at most, a few murmured words of approval.&nbsp; But in all those years, she never told me she loved me.&nbsp; She never had to.&nbsp; I knew. <br /><br />As my children grew up, she grew old, very old, and needed more and more of my mother's and my help until, finally, painfully, she had withered away to almost nothing. The bewildering and exhausting final months of her decline in which she was increasingly distant, irrational, and difficult culminated in her last days of complete infantile helplessness.&nbsp; Yet, as deeply sad and difficult as that was, it was also beautiful.&nbsp; At the bittersweet end, she wanted to be touched and held.&nbsp; She seemed to take comfort in hearing us speak to her of the people in this world and the next who loved her and would always love her. With all her matriarchal authority surrendered and her dignity set aside for an even higher calling, she was finally able to accept my embrace.<br /><br />Since her passing, I find her with me all the time.&nbsp; I speak to her sometimes as I move about my life.&nbsp; My new home is full of her old things.&nbsp; I find myself repeating some of her favorite stories and phrases.&nbsp; I like to tell my kids about her.&nbsp; "Your great-grandmother used to say," I begin.&nbsp; I want them to know her, to know the essence of her as far as I can communicate it.<br /><br />&nbsp;She is with me day and night.&nbsp; This week, as I slept, I dreamed that I found my grandmother struggling to lay herself down on her bed.&nbsp; I rushed to her and caught her up in my arms so that I might help her.&nbsp; I settled her gently onto the bed and said, "Grandma, your clothes are all twisted!" as I helped her straighten polyester trousers with elastic waistband, so familiar and dear in my memory.&nbsp; Then, when her clothes were smoothed, I also smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead saying to her, "I love you, Grandma!"&nbsp; She answered my declaration as she never had in life, "I love you, too."&nbsp; No uncomfortable laugh affectionately dismissing my sentimentality, no awkward words acknowledging the sentiment but falling short of reciprocating it.&nbsp; In my dream, finally, I had her voice, clear and calm, telling me what I always knew but needed to hear.<br /><br />Dreams have their own funny logic.&nbsp; All through my dream, I knew that she was already gone, that she had already died and that I was merely speaking with a shade who would soon fade away from my sight and leave me once again without her.&nbsp; When I woke, the dream lingered longer than most- allowing me a chance to get hold of it and pin it down in words.&nbsp; I am thankful for such a dream that seemed so simple and so real.&nbsp; I am thankful for the reminder that I had that time with her when I was permitted to hold her.&nbsp; I am thankful, if only in a dream, to hear her tell me she loved me in a voice both gentle and certain. &nbsp; Maybe it is not the first time.&nbsp; Perhaps she told me she loved me when I was a little girl.&nbsp; She was often more affectionate with children than with adults.&nbsp; But if she did, I don't remember it.&nbsp; I do remember her hands, elegant, cool, and fragrant, brushing my hair from my forehead when I was little. I also remember her hands at the close of her life, frail and trembling, grasping my own and placing them against her hair so that I could do the same for her. <br /><br />Such knowledge of another soul is greater than any words we use to describe our feelings.&nbsp; She was matriarch, sister, friend.&nbsp; She was Grandma to me...and I was myself with her.&nbsp; And that was always good enough.Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-40495324812703648582017-11-30T12:39:00.000-08:002017-11-30T12:39:03.925-08:00In Which I Discuss My Recent MoveMuch has changed since my last post.&nbsp; I now live in a dollhouse on a corner lot nestled between the canal and a city park.&nbsp; We have lived here for one year now and have fallen in love with our gardens and our favorite walk over the aqueduct.&nbsp; We love the lake and the waterfall, the thriving old-fashioned downtown, and the lovely stretches of farmland surrounding our new village home.&nbsp; As the year unfolds, we are delighted by new surprises and new traditions.&nbsp; The flowers come up in the spring and summer followed by the burnished colors of autumn.&nbsp; The winter brings us a parade of lights and fireworks downtown as the snow makes a wonderland of the park outside our door.&nbsp; In many ways, this has been a good year, political tragedies notwithstanding.&nbsp;<br /><br />I would not, however, be honest if I did not acknowledge that in some ways, despite our appreciation for our blessings, it has been one of the most difficult times of our lives.&nbsp; In the end, the personal is political and this year, more than most, the political became very personal.&nbsp; I am haunted by the what-might-have-been of the election last year.&nbsp; Since that day in November, the world has been distorted for my family.&nbsp; At first it was just the horrified realization that the nation had elected an individual we felt to be predatory and unethical.&nbsp; We were afraid for immigrants, the poor, for the environment.&nbsp; We imagined dystopia and braced ourselves for the work we would be asked to do to defend the vulnerable.&nbsp;<br /><br />But those were all impersonal fears, the kind that you find in television reports.&nbsp; We were still safe.&nbsp; Our move was still ahead of us, and we knew how valuable my husband was to his employers.&nbsp; Hadn't they just transferred his employment to another refuge out farther west, and weren't they thrilled to have him on their team?&nbsp; We knew how much they needed his labor, and so, while the worry that something (so unlikely!), it was not severe.&nbsp; In fact, there was great promise that it was just a matter of time, perhaps only months, before his term position would be translated to a permanent position.&nbsp; After four years of paying his federal worker dues with an "internship" in which he worked full time for frankly lousy pay while attending college part time, we knew it was his turn.&nbsp;<br /><br />Part of the fun of the move was hearing all the important things he was doing at work.&nbsp; His sense of purpose and dedication enlivened all of us.&nbsp; He wore his uniform with pride and told us about the job he was doing to protect the water and the wildlife that relies on it.&nbsp;&nbsp; Then, just as the summer months approached with anticipation of all the work required in a refuge during the warm months, he came home early to tell me that he had been let go.&nbsp; There was a federal hiring freeze and multiple employees were summarily dismissed from all the refuges.&nbsp; In our district in the Northeast, two individuals had been tasked by their administrators with the unhappy responsibility of traveling from refuge to refuge to fire Fish and Wildlife workers.&nbsp; The guy who fired my husband was very nice, and very sorry, but that doesn't count for very much.&nbsp; Just like that, all the promises he had been given, all the support from his supervisors and co-workers came to nothing. In a moment, all the time, dedication, skill, and pride he had invested in what he thought was his career were all swept away. As he told me the news, I could barely stand to see the hurt in his eyes.&nbsp; He was winded, sucker-punched, and even a little ashamed.&nbsp; He felt that he had somehow let us down.<br /><br />So that was that.&nbsp; He was unemployed for three months and the money we had set aside to fix up this dear old house was eaten up.&nbsp; In the midst of this, my grandmother passed away, and two of our dogs died.&nbsp; I have found also that even on the happy days, I miss my parents and my son, still living back east on the old homestead, so much that it hurts. On the loneliest and most difficult days, I wonder if we made the right decision when we decided to buy this frumpy, old-lady of a Victorian house out here so far away from my folks and my old memories.&nbsp;<br /><br />My husband finally found a job as a truck driver for a recycling company.&nbsp; The pay is reasonably good, but the hours are terrible.&nbsp; He leaves for work at 1:00 each afternoon and, on a good day, comes home around midnight.&nbsp; More often he is out much later, sometimes as late as 5 am.&nbsp; The man who just six months ago was so bursting with pride in his work that he kept his uniform on even after he came home, now winces as he puts on his neon yellow work shirt and calls me during his breaks to help calm his anxiety and to buoy his spirits.<br /><br />Meanwhile, I am working from home as an online adjunct instructor.&nbsp; I don't get the good assignments I had grown accustomed to.&nbsp; These days, so far removed from the political structure of the main campus, I'm lucky to get any courses at all.&nbsp; I've been busy with my work as an historical interpreter of 19th century women's rights history.&nbsp; This is the 100th anniversary of New York women's achievement of suffrage so there have been plenty of gigs.&nbsp; These help pay the bills and give me some sense that I have not sacrificed all of my career as an educator to come out here to live. <br /><br />Sometimes I regret moving out here.&nbsp; I am homesick for the Finger Lakes and my family still living there, I resent the loss of our jobs, and I worry about our ability to keep this house.&nbsp; I am sometimes angry to the point of tears when I see that so many of the dreams we had as young people will never be realized.&nbsp; He will never retire from the federal government with a retirement sufficient to provide for our children and ourselves.&nbsp; I will never be a tenured faculty member with the respect of my peers.&nbsp; But these moments of remorse for this move, one of the biggest decisions of my life, are rare.&nbsp; Far more often I am thankful for a home I love and still hopeful that what sometimes feels like a series of misfortune and petty injustice is really just more transition, painful at times, awkward, and scary, but ultimately leading me to a greater depth and wisdom as my husband and I walk together into middle-age. <br /><br />Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-90218001383583214862016-05-22T10:04:00.000-07:002017-09-26T04:44:24.234-07:00Battling SpringIt has been an exceptionally slow spring with several false starts.&nbsp; The flowers poked their daring heads above the ground only to be covered by several inches of snow.&nbsp; Again and again this would happen.&nbsp; Tantalizingly, temperatures climbed as we, throwing caution to the balmy wind, celebrated spring only to have our hopes dashed with the next bout of deep cold.&nbsp; And then we'd say, "What did you expect?&nbsp; This is New York" and go about our business properly chastened.&nbsp; It is a rookie mistake to expect spring during the spring months in Western New York.&nbsp; But those little flowers and green leaf buds were indomitable and while I hardly dared dream, I kept consulting them like oracles.&nbsp; Today I dare to hope that we have turned a corner.&nbsp; There was a bit of ice in yesterday's rain, but the lilacs are in bloom and despite the chill in the air this morning, there is too much green on the trees and too much promise in the sunshine for me to believe that winter can do any more than leave us with a parting cuff and cussing.&nbsp; Winter can be a bitter old man, but there's not much bite left in him.<br /><br />On the branch just outside the window sits a robin.&nbsp; He's a robust fellow who persistently flies against the windowpane--thump!--and then returns to his perch to glare in at us.&nbsp; We are told that he sees his reflection and thinking another cheeky male has come to disrupt his household, he stands guard periodically giving the perceived interloper what-for by smacking his fat little body against the glass.&nbsp; We've attempted to discourage this delusional behavior by a variety of means, but he is persistent.&nbsp; In fact, this is his second year of window-smacking devotion to his mate.&nbsp; He is delusional, but he is also admiral in his loyalty.&nbsp; What worries me, however, is that he will do himself harm.&nbsp; I worry not just about his plump little robin body, but about his dear little robin spirit.&nbsp; For two years he has lived with the anxiety of another male robin invading his peaceful domestic life and potentially causing harm to his little robin family.&nbsp; I may know that he need not worry, but the robin doesn't know that.&nbsp; He stands guard day after day with worry in his tiny heart.<br /><br />Perhaps I anthropomorphize too much, but it is difficult not to feel great sympathy for the robin.&nbsp; My spring has been thematic.&nbsp; I might file the entire thing in my brain as Worried Hope.&nbsp; Since my grandmother's passing, all the energies in my life that seemed frozen have begun to thaw.&nbsp; For an eternity, I waited sometimes patiently (but mostly impatiently) for Something Good to Happen knowing that I could not really move toward that Something until "Grandma Doesn't Need Me Anymore."&nbsp; Well, that time is now.&nbsp; And now, like the spring itself, there have been persistent indications from the Universe that change is coming.<br /><br />My husband has graduated from college ending his long internship at the wildlife refuge where he works.&nbsp; This took us by surprise since we thought they planned to either keep him on a few months longer or maybe even open a permanent position for him.&nbsp; No dice.&nbsp; This was not a tragedy.&nbsp; Having satisfied his obligations in a special federal program, he has earned assistance finding&nbsp; a permanent federal job somewhere in the country and has already landed a term position that will pay the bills while we search.&nbsp; I tried to be enthusiastic about the idea of moving to a new place, but I failed.&nbsp; I was too frightened and sad about the situation to muster up anything like believable enthusiasm.&nbsp; I suppose I gave it all away when I couldn't stop crying about it.<br /><br />&nbsp;My career as an adjunct lecturer also seems to be coming to a close.&nbsp; I always said that if my husband found work elsewhere or if my father, with whom I work, retired, I would leave my thankless job and good riddance.&nbsp; I hoped for one of those two things to happen.&nbsp; Longed for it.&nbsp; Prayed for it.&nbsp; And now my husband has found work elsewhere and my father has announced his retirement.&nbsp; And me?&nbsp; Far from feeling good about these changes for which I've prayed, I'm just unsettled and uncertain.&nbsp; Everything is changing.&nbsp; Too fast. <br /><br />My family is changing too.&nbsp; Grandma is gone.&nbsp; I can't even wrap my head around that.&nbsp; <br /><br />My son turned 18 and let us know that he didn't plan to come with us when we moved deciding instead to take up my parents' offer to him to continue to live with them.&nbsp; My younger son, while still "the baby", is increasingly independent and rapidly approaching his teen years. My daughter turned 17 and became very interested in being herself.&nbsp; She is still a loving and conscientious girl, but is now much taller, hipper, and more obviously assertive in her quest to be unlike her mother.&nbsp; I knew this was coming, but when I saw her dressed for her prom, I was a wreck of pride and sorrow.&nbsp; I bought her dress, shoes, and make-up, helped her pick out jewelry, and watched her father take a thousand pictures as she and her best friend vamped for the camera.&nbsp; She is so different than I was at her age.&nbsp; I was too much of a nerd to ever contemplate going to prom, but I did my best not to let her know how scared I am of that difference.&nbsp; I cheerfully joined her in prom preparations.&nbsp; Dress, hair, make-up--I tried to be as cool as a mom can be. &nbsp;&nbsp; As she and her friend pulled out of the driveway, I sat on the front porch in my sensible shoes and long skirt and waved a happy good-luck-and-have-a-great-time! good-bye to my gorgeous short-skirted, long-legged daughter. &nbsp;&nbsp; Then, when she was down the road, I burst into tears and wept for at least half an hour straight.<br /><br /><br />So that's how it goes.&nbsp; Spring is beautiful and heart breaking.&nbsp; It is too much for me.&nbsp; At first, you just see a few green shoots, a little blossom, a budding tree.&nbsp; You feel that you can observe it, understand it, keep track of it.&nbsp; I miss the discipline and certainty of winter, agent of ice and dormancy.&nbsp; Blessed winter keeps checking life's haste, calls it back to order, cautions its wayward ramblings.&nbsp; But the dear conservative winter can only hold on so long before spring well and truly breaks through those bonds and erupts in a riot of green.&nbsp; I walk outside and try to imagine the still winter, the austere lines of gray branch against white snow and white sky.&nbsp; I try to remember when the air was not full of a cacophony of bird song.&nbsp; Spring is a time of hope, but like my robin friend, I worry and stand guard at the window.&nbsp; I see threats to my family everywhere in this unruly eruption of change.&nbsp; I feel like I must, if I am to be at all vigilant for my family's sake, run up against the hard edges of reality again and again.<br /><br />But it occurs to me that this too might be delusion.&nbsp; Is it possible that while the warm spring welcomes growth all around me I am only staring down a delusion. Perhaps I am no less foolish than the robin outside my window.Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-14020574439912318412016-02-17T11:08:00.000-08:002016-02-17T15:36:41.102-08:00Now. Look Here.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings></xml><![endif]--><i>Note:&nbsp; I delivered this sermon on the Sunday before Martin Luther King's birthday and two weeks following my grandmother's death at 99 and 1/2 years old.</i><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> 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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Body Text First Indent"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Note Heading"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Body Text 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Body Text 3"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Body Text Indent 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Body Text Indent 3"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Block Text"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Hyperlink"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="FollowedHyperlink"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Document Map"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Plain Text"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="E-mail Signature"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="HTML Top of Form"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Normal (Web)"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="HTML Acronym"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="HTML Address"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="HTML Cite"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" 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SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Colorful 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Colorful 3"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Columns 1"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Columns 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Columns 3"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Columns 4"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Columns 5"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Grid 1"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Grid 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Grid 3"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Grid 4"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Grid 5"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Grid 6"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Grid 7"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Grid 8"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table List 1"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table List 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table List 3"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table List 4"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table List 5"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table List 6"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table List 7"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table List 8"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table 3D effects 1"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table 3D effects 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table 3D effects 3"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Contemporary"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Elegant"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Professional"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Subtle 1"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table Subtle 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Table 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Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:8.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:107%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">These years have been difficult and unsettling years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Often when people speak to me of the future, they do so as if it is a haunted and unwholesome place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have become afraid of the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I’d rather rest in the pages of history with my heroes<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>but the world seems so damaged and hurting that their victories have become like accusations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>“We played our part,” they seem to say to me, “what will you do?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I can’t answer the question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Sometimes I think I’ll drive myself crazy with trying.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Not that it would have mattered much if I could find the answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I do not know what work I will be called to do in the future, but up until last month, I knew my place and that was with my grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">These years have been difficult and unsettling years for her too as one by one she surrendered her connection to her life and to those of us who had shared it with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Her body weakened and her vision and hearing failed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She lost her ability to walk, to stand, to sit up without assistance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She lost her ability to cook, to feed herself, and finally to swallow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Most painfully for us, she seemed to always be somewhere else, away from us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Days would go by without a word from her or even a smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In our multi-generational home, her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren gathered around her, and year after year as she drifted away from us, we all drew closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My mother retired early and dedicated herself to my grandmother’s care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She even began to sleep on the floor beside Grandma’s bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My children grew up with the mandate that every decision must be made with their great-grandmother’s needs and comforts in mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Shawn and I together decided that whatever we pursued in life and career must honor her as the center of the family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Through it all, I’d watch and read the news with a growing sense of dread for my children’s sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I became jealous of my grandmother who, with nearly a century behind her, had moved beyond all care for tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And I resented her too because in satisfying my duty to her, I felt I was neglecting my duty to the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My career stalled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My writing stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And the more vulnerable she became, the more time she required of me, of all of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I loved Grandma but I resented her too. I missed the person she had been and dreaded the final loss of her.</span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For eleven years I helped my family protect my grandmother’s independence and dignity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But despite our best efforts, her independence fell away, and then her dignity, and then, many long, painful months later, she was gone too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And I had a sermon to write.</span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I wanted to write of important things and chose hymns and readings that focus on interpretations of the healing presence of the Divine in our midst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The gospel writers called it the Paraclete, which is sometimes translated as the Advocate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The early church named it the Holy Spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Generations of mystics have called it the Inward Christ, the Indwelling Spirit, “that of God,” Holy Wisdom, Intercessor, Comforter, Helper, Beloved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But this message is not about theology or the history of Christianity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I wanted it to be because I love that stuff, but I couldn’t manage it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Our household is in disarray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My words also do not follow good order and they keep wandering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I find that they want to be with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Grandma was not a prophet like Dr. King or a mystic like Julian and I never heard her use the words “holy” or “spirit” either alone or in combination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Still, I keep hearing her voice in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>“Now, look here!” she would say as she was always pointing out little details to us--a loose thread on a sweater, a bloom on an African violet, a jack-in-the-pulpit in the garden, an error in our grammar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have a lot of stories about her and I’ll be telling them all my life, I suppose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But if I had to choose one to tell you now it would be how she used to take me outside to show me the plants in her garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My grandmother’s garden was never going to win any awards for style, but I loved it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was green and cool and full of interesting things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She was not a boastful gardener with flowers set to impress, as much as she was a steward of the lowly things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>A tiny plant in a hidden place was as much a joy to her as any prize bloom. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She was our matriarch, a sovereign and mighty force in our life surrounding us with houseplants and crocheted mittens and afghans and other signs, visible and invisible, of her love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>To outsiders, it might have been difficult to see that love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In her affections as in her garden, you had to know what you were looking for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She was not going to gush over us, call us sweetheart, and bake us cookies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She was not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> kind of grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I knew she loved me because when I was little, she listened to me with the same respect she would give an adult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I knew because she hung mirrors and towel-rings down low so that we kids could reach these handy tools of life without having to ask for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I knew because if anyone teased one of us little ones, she would sternly defend the child with the words, “She is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">person</i>!”&nbsp;</span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Her kids and grandkids (and there are a lot!) are an eclectic and eccentric set and we brought more odd ducks into the family when we married people of different races, nations, sexualities, and religions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>In the boxes of photographs and cards that she saved over the years is evidence of just how weird we sometimes were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She took it all in stride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Whatever our condition, whatever our passions, whatever our place on the spectrum of life, she welcomed us back without question or condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We were all persons, unique and changing, and always, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> entirely acceptable and beloved in her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Her theology, and she would never use that word, was very basic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The Paraclete, the Holy Spirit that religious literature describes so mytho-poetically is really quite an ordinary and humble thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It is, finally and simply, a presence that seems to be always there, though we hardly ever take the time to notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It is the impetus, pathway, and action of love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It is the divine part of us that makes humanity humane and informs the way we deal with death and grief and memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It is Spirit seeking itself and finding it in the hidden places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It is what we learn from folks around us as they pass in and out of our lives--whether they are Jesus of Nazareth or Martin Luther King, or my grandmother, Prudence Mary, of a tiny town in central New York.&nbsp;</span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was difficult to wait with her in her last years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Like a little kid, I was restless and eager to run off and away, but instead I held her hand and followed her as if we were still together in her garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Except there were no more gardens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>No more painting or pottery or furniture refinishing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>No more shopping or visiting or Eastern Star meetings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>No more crocheting and knitting, croquet or dominoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>No more delicious cakes or horrible casseroles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>All of that was long ago and all that was left was an old woman, sometimes selfish, very frail, and wholly dependent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But she was not done teaching me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As the silence grew around us and between us, it was still as if Grandma was saying, “Now, look here!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The woman who had taught me all I know about personal dignity and self was also teaching me how to let those things go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span></span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Revelation can be a humble thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The Apostle Paul and Dr. King found it in a jail cell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>My grandmother spent her life seeing worth and divinity in small and humble places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She was not a big picture person, my grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She made her life in the everyday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It is a very human, and very holy thing to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Look here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This is the stuff that justice is made of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This is where kindness grows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As I struggle to understand just how my life will continue without her in it, I keep encountering her lesson that it is not the outward success but the such-ness of a life that deserves our attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Do not mistake greatness for importance, power for strength, or piety for faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For nearly a hundred years, Prudence was simply herself, formal and formidable, stubborn, brilliant, irascible, creative, witty, and kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Sometimes I wanted to set aside my duty to her and become important, to roll up my sleeves and seek a ministry outside the family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But it was never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> time--so I waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I waited until the morning after Christmas when I took my turn with her as she lay quietly breathing…breath after purposeful, intentional breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I listened to her sigh in what sounded like a young woman’s voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was a beautiful sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The household around us continued to bustle and live, but Grandma and I were caught in a moment of blessed quietness when I said, “I love you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s alright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We all love you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s alright.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Then, though she had seemed barely conscious for days, she set her jaw in one final moment of determination and was gone.</span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now it seems that she and I are both free and I must decide how to live in a troubled world without her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I do not know what I will do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I hesitate to bring so private a message to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I feel selfish in doing so, but this is the only thing I could write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have not yet received my new orders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I do not know what to do next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“We wait in the quietness for some centering moment that will redefine, reshape, and refocus our lives,” </i>wrote Howard Thurman. I think I know what he meant.</span><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For my entire adult life, I have been my grandmother’s apprentice and companion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But that is all over, and I do not know what is next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Perhaps for the first time in my life, I feel ready to rest in a faith I cannot understand or describe except to say that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> believe and I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have </i>known that a Comforter has come and does abide with us forever though we are sometimes too busy to notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>“Now,” my grandmother would say, “Look here.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The Beloved has been with us all along.</span></div>Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-19166646921111577552015-07-03T21:41:00.000-07:002015-07-03T21:41:08.360-07:00Treasures in Heaven<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://kwakerskripturestudy.blogspot.com/2015/06/matthew-619-21.html#comments"></a>I offer this with my thanks to one of my favorite blogs,&nbsp; <b>Friendly Skripture Study</b> which recently explored Matthew 6:19-21.&nbsp; <a href="http://kwakerskripturestudy.blogspot.com/2015/06/matthew-619-21.html" target="_blank">You can link to it here.</a><br /><br /><i>&nbsp;"Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on Earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."</i> <br /><br />When I read this, I could not help but think of two people who passed out of this life many years ago.&nbsp; I will interpret this biblical passage through the lens of my memory of my great-grandmother, Beth, and of her son-in-law, my grandfather, Theodore.&nbsp; They were ordinary people without much of what the world would call treasure to their names.&nbsp; They worked all their lives on farms and in factories and shops.&nbsp; They left me with no inheritance apart from their wisdom and their love.<br /><br />While reading Matthew's comments on treasure and heaven, my great-grandmother immediately came to mind.&nbsp; She once said that she would gladly give up her place in Heaven if she could give it to a criminal here on earth.&nbsp; Some folks receive blessing after blessing in happy childhoods and strong communities.&nbsp; Their physical and emotional needs are fulfilled.&nbsp; Others begin life with such injustice and pain that they seem to fall from grace.&nbsp; Poverty, violence, and inequality are heaped upon some far more than on others.&nbsp; She did not take credit for her virtue but believed it came to her as an unmerited gift of circumstance.&nbsp; Her life, full as it was with love, made making good decisions easy.&nbsp; It made being good easy.&nbsp; She felt that those who committed crime or could not find their way to virtue, were in that situation because they had, for whatever reason, been deprived of the soul-sustaining comforts and the helping hand of loving relationships.&nbsp; They had not known the privileges of connections, security, and safety.&nbsp; She told her family that she had experienced her Heaven here on earth with those she loved.&nbsp; She would give up her place in Heaven for another soul.&nbsp; Her view of Heaven and the way she linked it to social justice have always stayed with me.<br /><br />My grandfather came to mind because he taught me how to seek treasure. I remember how he told me that he wanted me to go to college not to learn how to make a living, but to learn how to make a life.&nbsp; Even if I didn't use my knowledge to earn money or make a career, to seek knowledge and to love it would make my life more meaningful, more valuable, more rich in treasure.&nbsp; Because I know the man he was, I also know that he did not simply mean knowledge for its own sake but as a means of increasing wisdom and understanding.&nbsp; Grandpa organized his entire life around love and found the deepest meaning in that love.&nbsp; I felt clear that he sent me off toward my education with a strongly implied directive.&nbsp; "Seek out knowledge, beauty, understanding, and wisdom.&nbsp; Be full of gratitude for the wonders you find in the world and the people in it.&nbsp; Be generous.&nbsp; Be kind.&nbsp; Be light-filled.&nbsp; Magnify the good."<br /><br />Now mind you, if my grandfather had ever made such a speech, it would have knocked us out of our chairs.&nbsp; He was painfully shy and very quiet.&nbsp; He was more likely to say a few short words of support than to make speeches.&nbsp; He was more likely to smile quietly than to laugh out loud, but his eyes would twinkle and he would gaze at us proudly when we came home and told him about our projects and our passions. He believed each of us was an expression of life's miracle.&nbsp; When I was a small child, I sat on his lap with my little hand in his.&nbsp; He would tell me how marvelous the human hand was and what a miracle could be found in the opposable thumb.&nbsp; I remember gazing at my own hand and feeling connected to all humanity and its potential.&nbsp;&nbsp; He sent each of his children and his grandchildren into the world with his expectation and hope that his curiosity and wonderment would go with us.&nbsp; And so it did and for that inheritance of treasure, I am ever thankful.<br /><br />My great-grandmother and my grandfather believed their lives were blessed, rich, full of treasure.&nbsp; Others would have disagreed.&nbsp; Theo had a speech impediment and walked on bowed legs.&nbsp; He lost his oldest sister to a fire and his father to tuberculosis.&nbsp; Finally, just as he was coming of age, his mother died and he and his orphaned brothers and sisters were cheated out of their family farm.&nbsp; As a young adult, he watched sibling after sibling die at a young age and lived his entire (ironically) long life in fear of death and separation from his loved ones.&nbsp; He worked until he was 85 and then, following his doctors' medical neglect, nearly died of an long-untreated aneurysm which was followed by five long years of dementia ending in his death.&nbsp;<br /><br />His mother-in-law, Beth, was an immigrant to the United States.&nbsp; She lost her beloved brother to the First World War, had to leave her family in England to make a life for herself in the States, struggled to raise a family on a Upstate New York farm during the Great Depression, saw two sons traumatized by World War II, and despite being an artist, a poet, and a schoolteacher, had to take a job in a factory to support her terminally ill husband in his last years before his premature death.&nbsp; She lived as a widow for many years before she died of breast cancer at 87.&nbsp;<br /><br />Both of them suffered their share of sorrows and carried their own heavy burdens, but they both knew and celebrated the treasures they had and the treasures that they passed along to us.&nbsp; We cherish Beth's poems which are about the simple joys of life and her steadfast belief in human equality.&nbsp; We have her oil paintings and her watercolors in which she lovingly captured the beauty around her, a vase of flowers, a favorite book, the woods in the fall.&nbsp; She was a prolific painter and gave her work away to many friends and family who admired it.&nbsp; Her paintings hang in almost every room in my home and in those of my extended family.&nbsp; One of her oil paintings hangs in the community library and I love to point it out to my children to remind them of Gram's spirit.&nbsp; Her poems and paintings are a wonderful legacy and we are proud of them, but they are still just things and those things, paper and canvas, ink and paint, will fade away.&nbsp; What will last will be her joy, her love, her dignity and grace.&nbsp; Her love of beauty in simple things was shared over and over again until it became a habit in all of us who descended from her.&nbsp; Several of us have careers in the arts or have made craft and creativity a central theme in our lives.&nbsp; More importantly, as we create, we do so with her central teaching that creativity matters.&nbsp; Love matters.&nbsp; Equality matters.&nbsp; Any woman who would give up her place in heaven not only for "the less fortunate" but for the most despised here on earth cannot help but leave the world aglow in treasure.<br /><br />Likewise, my grandfather, Theodore, through hard work and self-denial, left his wife, and therefore those of us who continue to care for her in her old age, a nest egg of savings.&nbsp; He ensured that she would have a physical home to live in for the remainder of her life, that she could continue to pay for her health care, and that so long as she lived simply, she would not go without.&nbsp; But that is just money and with prolonged illness and the relentless march of time, it too dwindles and disappears. &nbsp; He gave us so much more than that.&nbsp; We have story after story of wisdom and kindness from my grandfather.&nbsp; These Grandpa-stories are shared each time the family comes together.&nbsp; These are mostly funny stories that end with his constant message of patience, tolerance, and kindness.&nbsp;<br /><br />Beth must have seen that in him after he married her daughter.&nbsp; My grandpa, the man who told me to go learn and seek out the meaningful and the worthy was her son-in-law and she chose to live close to him and to her daughter after her husband died.&nbsp; She must have appreciated his loyal spirit, and she painted a special painting just for him.&nbsp; She knew that his own vulnerabilities, his speech impediment and his tremendous shyness gave him gifts of sensitivity and gentleness.&nbsp; When her husband was full of sorrow, she had called on Theodore to spend time with him, not to "cheer him up" but because she knew her son-in-law's heart was tender enough to listen closely and to love unconditionally.&nbsp; Her husband, like her, was an artist and yet he struggled to make his way as a farmer.&nbsp; He struggled with an injured heart, both physically and metaphorically.&nbsp; So Beth sent Theodore out to the fields to spend time with him.&nbsp; She knew that sometimes we do not need to be cheered.&nbsp; We need to be heard.&nbsp; We need others to see the light that shines in us.<br /><br />In the end, and from the beginning, the Light is our treasure.&nbsp; We are called to shine and we are called to see others shine and to glory in it.&nbsp; I think we miss it because we expect something brash and bold and stupendous.&nbsp; Perhaps we expect trumpets and angels, but sometimes, most times, it is a very humble and human thing.&nbsp; You can find it in the treasure house of our curious minds and our loving hearts.&nbsp; Once, long ago, Grandpa held my little hand in his and told me what a miracle it is to be human.&nbsp; When he closed his great, work-worn hand around mine it was as if he had pressed treasure beyond measure into my palm.&nbsp; Our riches are our passions and hopes and creative souls.&nbsp; We build our fortunes when we work for each other, honor each other, celebrate each other.&nbsp; Our treasure is Love, not of the Hallmark variety, but the kind of love my grandfather gave me when he looked at me and saw a miracle.&nbsp; Our heaven is each other.&nbsp; So go out and paint and write poetry.&nbsp; Go out and raise children and work hard.&nbsp; Go out and learn and be filled, forever, with the wonder of it.&nbsp; Go out and let your paintbrush dance and your eyes twinkle and your heart ache.&nbsp;&nbsp; Teach this human miracle to others.&nbsp; Love them into the fullness of their lives.&nbsp; Hear them into the fullness of their Voice.&nbsp; Give without counting the cost. Follow the advice George Fox gave us:<br /><br />&nbsp; "Be patterns, be examples in all countries, places, islands, nations wherever you come; that your carriage and life may preach among all sorts of people, and to them; then you will come to walk cheerfully over the world answering that of God in everyone; whereby in them you may be a blessing, and make the witness of God in them to bless you."&nbsp; <br /><br />Let your love for all people everywhere so fill you and enrich you that you cannot help but declare that it is enough and more than enough. Give up your place in Heaven for love's sake and Heaven's treasures will pour down upon you.&nbsp; Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-40650651009791081322015-02-17T12:13:00.000-08:002015-02-20T08:13:28.489-08:00The Valley of the VioletsIn the summer months, my little sister and I spent most of our days outside. &nbsp;At the farthest end of our backyard was little, tree-covered flood-bank that snaked along behind the houses. &nbsp; &nbsp;In our yard, at the base of the flood-bank, there was a little wooden building, painted white with green trim. &nbsp;It was an old bait house, but it hadn't been used as such for decades. &nbsp;My sister and I could have used it as a playhouse, but for some reason, this did not occur to us. &nbsp;Instead, we kept an old tire in there in which we made a nest of dry grass for a large smooth stone. &nbsp;It was the house where we kept the dinosaur egg.<br /><br />Behind the dinosaur egg house and up on top of the wooded flood-bank was a long trail. There were wonders up there that only my sister and I knew about. &nbsp;There was, for instance, a tree in which a person, if they cared very little about dirt or insects, could hide. &nbsp;You could also see the ocean if you stood in just the right place. &nbsp;It was really just the grayish blue roof of<span style="background-color: white;"> a</span>&nbsp;house seen through trees, but it was real enough for me.<br /><br />On the other side of the flood-bank was the creek. &nbsp;I still dream of that creek. &nbsp;Behind our house and all along that wondrous wooded levee that accompanied it on its lazy trip through the village, it was buggy and surrounded by dense vegetation. &nbsp;We could only walk along it easily in the dry summer or in the winter when the water and the ground around it were frozen and navigable. <br /><br />Between the long, snaky hills built to hold the water back from the village, there was an entire world full of living things the grown-ups barely knew was there. &nbsp;You could find deer and birds and rabbits. &nbsp;Sometimes there would be a garter snake lying in the path. &nbsp;We always tried to catch these because there is something very magical about a snake, but snakes, like fairies, are difficult to capture. &nbsp;They are gone almost before they are seen.<br /><br />There were plants there too. &nbsp;I didn't know the names of them so my memory does not allow me to identify most of them. &nbsp;There were raspberries in abundance and touch-me-nots and Virginia creeper, I'm sure. &nbsp;But there were also the mean-grasses that cut at our legs and the dark, broad, and thin leaves of the tender plants that grow in damp places. &nbsp;There were yellow and pink and white flowers but none of them stand out in mind like the Valley of the Violets.<br /><br />I think my sister and I were the only people who ever saw it. &nbsp;We were intrepid adventurers in shorts and tee-shirts, our arms covered in mosquito bites and our ankles smudged with creek mud. &nbsp;There may have been other people who passed that way, but unless they had eyes to see, it was invisible to them. &nbsp;Like my ocean, you had to be in just the right place to see it. &nbsp;But more than that it wasn't the kind of place you could just walk to with only mundane intention or find without heart. &nbsp;You had to make a journey. &nbsp;It could only be reached by quest. &nbsp;It was that special. &nbsp;It was the kind of place that is not always there and if you turn your back on it, like the garter snake, it would disappear into the more prosaic reality of creek water and mosquitoes.<br /><br />How my sister and I first found it, I cannot recall. &nbsp;It was not in the territories we normally explored. &nbsp;I imagine that we crossed over from our own backyard, through our neighbors' yard via the path on the top of the levee. &nbsp;A street cut through the bank at the edge of our neighbor's yard and so there was an artificially steep climb down to the regular ground level. &nbsp;You had to be careful about this. &nbsp;A bit of a little sideways run down the hill with a few big, bouncing leaps at the bottom generally kept us on our feet. &nbsp;Then we crossed the road which was, because of our age and immense fear of cars, a peril in itself. &nbsp;It was a very little town and a very little street, but I was very careful to look both ways. &nbsp;The creek passed under the road and the flood-bank, severed in the middle, picked up again on the other side. <br /><br />On the other side was a chain link fence that extended all around the school fields and playground. &nbsp; But the fence ended at the long hill by the creek and it was easy enough to slip around the edge of the fence. &nbsp;There was a little elementary school, just for the primary school kids at one end of the field and sometimes we played there or road our bikes around the parking lot and sidewalks. &nbsp;Very few children ever came back to the school grounds after school hours so it was almost as if the entire complex had been built for us. &nbsp;In any case, we felt it was really an extension of our own backyard and were always resentful when we found other children there.<br /><br />Nearer to the road and in the corner of the school yard there was a great cluster of trees that grew together to form what all of us kids thought of as a house. &nbsp;The trunks and branches grew together to form windows and ledges and seats where we all loved to climb. &nbsp;Of course, it was forbidden by the school teachers minding us during playground period, but that mattered little to my sister and me after school hours. &nbsp;When all the other children went home, the entirety of the school yard was ours and the tree house with it.<br /><tree .="" a="" affect="" afford="" age="" all="" always="" and="" because="" big="" bus="" but="" children="" climb="" close="" could="" couldn="" destination="" did="" didn="" distinctly="" during="" e="" elementary="" families.="" first="" for="" forbidden="" gone="" grown="" had="" he="" hill="" hollowed="" home="" hospital="" hours.="" in="" into="" inviting="" it="" kids="" kind="" knew="" know="" little="" ll="" made="" make="" maternal="" maybe="" merely="" most="" n="" nbsp="" nd="" near="" not="" of="" older="" or="" other="" our="" ours.="" out="" own="" p="" place="" places="" play="" played="" playground="" playhouse.="" presence.="" presence="" provided="" r="" rooms="" rules="" school.="" school="" seats="" see="" shelves="" so="" t="" teacher="" teachers="" that="" the="" their="" there="" they="" three="" to="" together="" tolerated="" too="" took="" trees.="" trees="" twisted="" two="" up="" us.="" ut="" wait="" wanted="" was="" we="" went="" were="" when="" with=""><br />From the tree house, there was another climb back up to the top of the long hill where it began again from where the road interrupted it. &nbsp;There was a path at the top on the school side of the road too, but it was not as well-traveled as the side behind our house. &nbsp;This made it feel far more dark and dangerous a path for us. &nbsp;One had to brace oneself before venturing down that trail. &nbsp;Eventually, the path would get narrower and narrower until it disappeared altogether. &nbsp;I suppose that's why we decided to walk down the "Other side" of the path not toward the school yard but toward the creek. &nbsp;There must have been a path, or something like a path leading down the side of the hill away from the school yard. &nbsp;Maybe the bugs were bothering us or maybe it was the prickly plants at the top. &nbsp;Perhaps a deer had passed that way or maybe it was a fairy trail. &nbsp;Whatever our reasoning, we followed it down.<br /><br />And then we were on the other side of the world. &nbsp;The school yard, our neighbor's yard and our yard were all part of this side of reality. &nbsp;It was the reality of casseroles and warm sweaters and homework and bedtimes. &nbsp;It was a comfortable and predictable world full of watchful adults who only saw the roofs of houses and never saw oceans. &nbsp;The flood-bank was a boundary world. &nbsp;It too could be seen by parents and teachers. &nbsp;It had well-worn paths, often walked by grown-up hikers and nature enthusiasts. &nbsp;Then there was the creek beyond it. &nbsp;This was more mysterious. &nbsp;We were to be very careful around the creek and there was more danger there. &nbsp;It was really too shallow for any mortal danger, but it was unpredictable in its own way with rocks and mud at the bottom that could not be seen and fish and crayfish and snakes. &nbsp;And then, most mysteriously of all, there was the other side of the creek. &nbsp;We almost never went there. &nbsp;I cannot tell you why. &nbsp;It looked very much like our side of the creek, but it wasn't somehow. &nbsp;It was like walking through the looking glass. &nbsp;We might dare to stand in the water with the minnows brushing past our bare legs and the cray fish hiding under rocks, but that was usually as far as we got. &nbsp;That last barrier was mighty and it was there that we usually turned around to go home.<br /><br />But not that day. &nbsp;Trying to remember it now with my adult brain, I realize that it could not possibly be as I remember it. &nbsp;It was just a little creek behind a earthen barrier to prevent flood damage to the village. &nbsp;And I honestly can't exactly remember how we finally made it to the Valley of the Violets. There was the wood and the water and the mosquitoes and the trees.... and then, we were just there somehow. &nbsp; It was as if we were venturing in one world and then stumbled into another. &nbsp; You have to be not looking while you are looking or you will never find your way. &nbsp;The moment you plan to find such a place, it will stay hidden. &nbsp;Such places only unfold themselves to the unwary and the willing. <br /><br />Over the creek, through some trees, quite ordinary. &nbsp;And then a bit of dense brush and prickly hedges and the old wispy trees one finds growing beneath the bigger, sturdier species. &nbsp;Duck down beneath branches, climb over roots, watch your step, mind the prickers, and the stick-tights, and look up to see. &nbsp;And there it was. &nbsp;A dark and quiet place removed from all the world. &nbsp;Trees leaned over it protectively. &nbsp;Bushes completely surrounded it. &nbsp;There in the hollow of earth made by creek and wood, it rested just beyond reality. &nbsp;And everywhere, everywhere, were violets. &nbsp;The light filtering down through the trees revealed a carpet of purple so deep and rich and holy that I have never forgotten it. &nbsp;We stood there together, my sister and me, and were just glad. &nbsp;We were just glad in that solemn quiet way that only happens when you are too foot-weary to insist upon reality and settle instead for Truth.<br /><br />We could have stayed and the whole world would have gone on without us and we would have gone on without the whole world. &nbsp;We could have made a bed of the flowers and lay among their petals like the velvet of a king's robe. &nbsp;Perhaps, if we waited for just a few more moments, we could have become a part of that magic. &nbsp;But we knew that we could not. &nbsp;Not really. &nbsp;The mosquitoes reminded us or our hungry bellies, or the darkening sky that it was time to go home. &nbsp;So we did. &nbsp;And that was that.<br /><br />I don't remember if we ever made our way back to the Valley of the Violets again. &nbsp;If we did, it was not exactly the same as it was that first time and so it was edited out of the stories we told to each other. &nbsp;For years and years, we have told each other the story, and it always begins "Do you remember?" &nbsp;I could call my sister today and the two of us, middle-aged ladies now, would feel, albeit fleetingly, like little girls again. &nbsp;For a moment we could be ducking beneath the pricker branches and over the meanest ribbon grass to a world of darkest green and richest purple fading to the palest lavender. <br /><br />I always meant to go back. &nbsp;I think part of me was left there and lives there still. &nbsp;Part of me is always there living in the deepest part of that magic and content to wait in the dimming light just before our mother calls us home. &nbsp;But that part of me I left behind and the wood itself are gone from my grasp now. &nbsp;I am all grown up and the woods are gone now too. &nbsp;Men came with big machines and cut into the long hill to flatten it out. &nbsp;New grown-ups too young to remember the big flood decided they didn't need the levee anymore and that it might be better to put a discount store there instead. &nbsp;So they brought in those big machines and dug up the creek and and hill and the snakes, and the prickers, and the razor grass, and the mosquitoes, and the violets and my memories too. &nbsp;All gone. &nbsp;Gone and replaced by a parking lot and a big, ugly discount store. &nbsp;And then more years turned and the discount store went out of business and became a community center. &nbsp;Which is good, I suppose, in its own way, but it isn't really. &nbsp;Not really. &nbsp;Because I remember. &nbsp;My sister and I remember what was there and what it meant and how we learned how there are some places in the world where you can never ever stay but that will be with you forever.</tree>Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-72506353539550043062015-02-17T09:26:00.000-08:002015-02-27T08:17:39.308-08:00An Exploration of Fear: Part 1: Courage, Performance, and PhobiaI'm not always sure how I would define courage, but I know that I am not a courageous person. One of my friends, a very practical and soulful woman, has a matter-of-fact way of responding to me whenever I say I could never be strong if faced with more adversity. &nbsp;She has no time for such nonsense. &nbsp;"You could, if you had to." &nbsp;Perhaps she is right. &nbsp;She certainly has a higher opinion of my abilities than I have.<br /><br />I suppose one definition of courage is doing a thing that makes you afraid. &nbsp; &nbsp;I'm afraid most of the time so that gives me many opportunities to be courageous. &nbsp;I very rarely take them. &nbsp;For instance, I do not drive although I have a driver's license. &nbsp;I never wanted to drive. &nbsp;Ever. &nbsp;When I was a teenager and it was time for me to take the test, I hid the practice booklet in the dog's bed so I wouldn't find it, and then was actually able to block the hidden location from my memory for several weeks. &nbsp;It took forever to find the darn book. &nbsp;(Likewise, I have the ability to un-remember how much student loan debt I accumulated.) Sadly for me, the book was found, the test was taken and passed, and I began to drive to college when I was eighteen. &nbsp;This independence lasted for one year, but after transferring to a four year school I all but stopped. &nbsp;And then, after meeting my husband, I pretty much stopped entirely.<br /><br />My family is very supportive of this. &nbsp;On many occasions, especially when I have had a conference, performance, appointment, or other obligation, my husband has taken time off of work to ensure that I have a chauffeur. &nbsp;(He was, in fact, a professional chauffeur at one point in his working life.) &nbsp;My parents also drive me. &nbsp;My mother takes my children and me to appointments and on outings. &nbsp; My father drives me to and from work. &nbsp;Since he and I work in the same building, this is not a hardship except that I must arrange my teaching schedule to coincide with his commuting schedule. &nbsp;This means that our division chairperson also accommodates my phobia by ensuring that our course schedules won't conflict with our transportation pattern.<br /><br />It is not merely the driving that terrifies me. &nbsp;I do not like to be without my family. &nbsp;I live with my grandmother, parents, husband, and children. &nbsp;I work with my father and share an office with him. &nbsp;In many ways, I am more like a nineteenth-century woman than a woman of today. &nbsp;Always accompanied by a relative, I live a protected life. &nbsp;My parents, my husband, and now even my children watch out for me and handle social interactions that upset me. &nbsp; They make phone calls for me and accompany me when I need to interact with people who make me nervous (nearly everyone!) &nbsp;They shield me. &nbsp;I mean this both figuratively and literally. &nbsp;I often walk slightly behind my husband and hold onto his arm or elbow when in public places. &nbsp;He waits for cues from me to know whether or not I dare risk interaction with people outside the family. &nbsp;If he sees me withdraw, he takes over. &nbsp;I note my children often scan my face to see if I need help or am feeling overwhelmed. &nbsp;It is impossible to articulate how much gratitude and shame I feel when they come to my rescue.<br /><br />There are noteworthy exceptions to my usually anxious, socially-phobic behaviors. &nbsp;For instance, when teaching, giving speeches, "working a crowd", or otherwise engaged in my work as a teacher or a performer, there would be no way anyone would guess how painfully introverted and anxious I am. &nbsp;I will strut, pull faces, tell jokes, swear like a dockworker, tell stories, and play both fool and philosopher for an audience. &nbsp;If I can do it in costume, all the better. &nbsp;They do not need to know that my family drove me to the event and is waiting in the wings to collect me. &nbsp;They do not need to know that I will return home full of conflicting feelings of glory and self-doubt, headaches, anxiety, and depression. &nbsp;They don't know that it will take me several hours and perhaps even days to recover once the adrenaline rush subsides.<br /><br />People say I am brave. They are wrong. &nbsp;They think I am being brave when I perform or when I reveal my vulnerabilities to strangers in my writing. &nbsp;But such things are not difficult for me. &nbsp;Disclosure of vulnerability is performative rather than courageous. &nbsp;I do not mean that it is false, but that it is incorporated in what I have always felt called to do. &nbsp;The weaknesses that limit me and that make my life so very private and shielded "in real life" can be safely exposed during performance. &nbsp;I do not know why this is the case. &nbsp;Ask me to expose the tender-most part of myself before an audience, and I will do so. &nbsp;You may call me brave, but that cost me very little. &nbsp;Returning your phone call, on the other hand, took everything I've got.Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-35563018190016112542014-12-02T23:02:00.000-08:002014-12-04T23:14:09.953-08:00My Writer's Block Prayer<div><br /></div><div>I tried to write something but, as usual, I could not. &nbsp;So I wrote this instead. &nbsp;It is just a prayer about writer's block. &nbsp;Not a very meaningful thing, maybe, but perhaps others know the feeling.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dearheart,<br /><div><br /></div><div>Tell me what to write. &nbsp;Breathe the words into me. &nbsp;Let the words flow through my fingers as they did when I was small and did not yet feel the weight of my imperfections. &nbsp;Bring me back to the days when the words crowded my mind. &nbsp;Bring me back to their spinning and dancing, to their power and spice and weight and rushing confidence. &nbsp;Bring me back to the nights when I crept from my bed so full of words that I had to scribble them down, pour them out, release them onto paper. &nbsp;Bring me back to a time when the paper was greedy and the night listened and the energy flowed down my arms and into my fingers. &nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Tell me what I am supposed to do, Dear One. &nbsp;Take away the plodding fear and the mocking doubts. &nbsp;Lift away the hurts and the missteps, the failures, and the disappointments. &nbsp;Let the stark and the correct, the appropriate and the sane fall back. &nbsp;Turn away the condescension and the smug contempt I have learned to endure and worse, that I have learned to feel. &nbsp;I have buried myself in petty fears piled one upon another until I find only silence where I once found you. &nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>I have seen you in moments. &nbsp;Like spheres and flashes and tendrils of Light I have seen you spin and reach infinitely outward, infinitely inward. &nbsp;I have felt you in the thrill of my body, in a gasp, in a whisper. &nbsp;I have felt you surround me like lover's arms. &nbsp;I have sought you, longed for you, grieved for you. &nbsp;Where are you now?</div><div><br /></div><div>Do not leave me alone. &nbsp;I want to give shape to shadows and make words that chase the Ineffable. &nbsp;I want to answer your call, but I am tired and your voice has grown faint. &nbsp; I am afraid that I cannot remember how to hear it. &nbsp;I am calling for you and you do not answer. My courage is faltering and I am no longer young. &nbsp;Do not leave me, Beloved. &nbsp;Let me write and sing and dance and dream for you as I did before the world became brittle and bitter. &nbsp;Lead me beyond fear.</div>Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-44339876510390102922014-08-19T11:04:00.000-07:002014-08-19T11:04:07.111-07:00The Touch-Me-Not SeedMy oldest son is seventeen years old now and is in a kind of funny stage between goofy boyhood and thoughtful manhood. &nbsp;One minute he's as playful as a little kid and the next minute he's all surly and uncooperative. &nbsp;Like the new whiskers on his face, his interest in girls continues to grow. &nbsp;The hormones can be outrageous at times. &nbsp;He is an amiable and sweet person by nature, but occasionally, his temper flares and he becomes moody and argumentative. &nbsp;But that's only sometimes and even then he seems to be more level-headed than I was at his age. <br /><br />He and I are relearning our relationship these days as he needs me less (or in entirely new ways) and I have begun to lean on him more. &nbsp;He's a big kid (about 6 foot 3) with a size 13 shoe, and so he finds that he is often asked to reach, carry, and toil for his aging relatives. &nbsp;He cooks for his siblings on nights when his dad is away and I can't face the task. &nbsp;He mops for his grandmother, does "bull work" for his grandfather, and is the guy we can count on to look after the critters, both domestic and wild, who depend on us for food and care.<br /><br />As I was doing my rounds checking on various members of the family, I noticed my son in the front yard as he was about to take his grandmother's elderly dog for a walk. &nbsp;He asked me to come along with him so I joined him on a meandering tour of the backyard. &nbsp;We walked back past the bench among the pine trees and down the little hill, under the arbor and over to the poor where the water was smooth and still. &nbsp;It has been raining a great deal lately and the pool is almost overflowing. &nbsp;Likewise, the creek, dry before last week, is flowing and overflowing now. &nbsp;We watched it rush over the rocks while we looked for touch-me-not pods to burst. &nbsp;When he was a toddler, I showed him how to look for the fat expectant ones that burst in your fingers at the slightest touch. &nbsp;Today when I pointed out the best ones to him, instead of bursting them himself, he carefully removed them from the parent plant and brought them to me so that I could have the honor. <br /><br />&nbsp;As I think about the gentle courtesy of this, I also remember the times when we have walked together in the snow or after a rain when he automatically puts his hand on my elbow to steady me. &nbsp;He was my baby for so long that it seems funny that now he is so much taller and stronger than I am. &nbsp;I have&nbsp;always been very protective of this child and have, on more than one occasion, become very fierce with those I felt threatened him. &nbsp;I carried him, hovered over him, and guarded him from dangers seen and unseen--and now he is almost all grown. &nbsp;It seems funny that without being told that this is the way of things, he has adopted the role of protector and has begun to fuss over me. &nbsp;I suppose that's the way of things. &nbsp;Plants produce seeds and the seeds grow to maturity. &nbsp;Why should I be so surprised that the little boy in the floppy moo-cow hat became the tall man next to me with the deep, resonant voice and the scruff of beard on his chin? &nbsp;These things happen.<br /><br />He and I are not done with our walk together. &nbsp;There is a much more I need to teach him before he is ready to walk on his own. &nbsp;And as an anxious person, I can't help but be nervous about all of that. &nbsp;I do not know what world stretches before him. &nbsp;As we walked back up the hill toward the house, we discussed our shared concerns about the environment and the problems of greed and meanness among people of power. &nbsp;His voice, like his pace, was slow and steady. He possesses a rich vocabulary and is articulate and wise, but he needs people to listen patiently. &nbsp;He is deeply intelligent rather than quick and arrives at his conclusions (and his points) in his own time. &nbsp; He can be ponderous, but also profound. &nbsp;He is kind, gentle, and peaceful. &nbsp;I have worked hard to nourish that impulse in him and it has grown beyond my expectation.<br /><br />In a hour or two he'll be arguing with his siblings or insisting upon the unreasonable. &nbsp;I'll be irritated with him about the clothes on his bedroom floor or for the water he's likely to track into the house from the pool. &nbsp;I'll criticize his posture ( "stand into your height!" ) or his communication skills ("listen!") or I'll be telling him to "be more respectful to your father!" or "wear a clean shirt!". &nbsp;I'll be giving him reminders. &nbsp;"Did you brush your teeth?" and "Did you remember deodorant?" and "Have you fed the pig?" &nbsp;And I'll enjoy those moments too because it means he still needs me to make sure he doesn't have pizza sauce on his face and that he goes to bed at a reasonable hour.<br /><br />&nbsp;I like to fuss over him. &nbsp;I <i>want</i> to fuss over him because as long as he permits it, I have not yet lost the boy. &nbsp;Still, more and more these days it is the man I see rather than the boy. &nbsp;Even as I fuss and hover, he sometimes trades exasperation for indulgence and gives me a reassuring hug. &nbsp;The time is close when this touch-me-not seed will spring away from me and seek his own ground. &nbsp;Sometimes it feels like the slightest breeze will send him on his way and he will belong to the world instead of to me.. <br /><br />But not yet. &nbsp;Not yet. &nbsp;The time is not yet ripe and so he is still with me. &nbsp;Meanwhile, he is learning how to be a man, how to be an adult, how to be himself. &nbsp;And I am learning to understand that while I will always be his mother, he will not always be my boy.<br /><br /><br />Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-2084584603682692992014-07-07T11:53:00.000-07:002014-07-07T11:53:09.691-07:00The Horrors of Social HourThe worst part of meeting for worship is the part when it ends. &nbsp; Someone on the other side of the room smiles and extends her hand to the person sitting next to her. &nbsp;Everyone looks up and around stretching backs and legs and shoulders that may have cramped a bit in the long, quiet hour. &nbsp;There is, in that moment, a sense of refreshed newness, like awakening from a deep, spiritual nap. &nbsp;I like that bit. &nbsp;What happens next is the miserable part. &nbsp;Inevitably, like a slow motion nightmare, the person sitting nearest me who is not either my husband or one of my children turns to me with an outstretched hand and I have to shake it. &nbsp;And then I have to arrange my face in a smile and say something appropriate. &nbsp;Then, most unmercifully, someone else will want me to repeat this painful process. &nbsp;This is the social part of meeting for worship and it is, for someone as painfully introverted as I am, an ordeal.<br /><br />I have strategies to deal with this unpleasantness. &nbsp;I make myself very busy with my children. &nbsp;I find that by fussing over my children by brushing the hair out of their eyes or speaking to them with great concern or focused maternal interest, I'm able to avoid some of those handshakes. &nbsp;I also become very busy with my pocketbook or other belongings. &nbsp;Fussing over coats, hats, books, bags, and other things helps a great deal. &nbsp;I think of this as my Kanga strategy. &nbsp;By fussing over Roo and behaving in a slightly frazzled, benevolent, and maternal manner, people excuse my lack of social interest. <br /><br />Of course, this method is less effective now that my children are much older and clearly no longer in need of my maternal attention. &nbsp;I still fuss over my 6 foot 2 seventeen year old but eventually that just looks weird. &nbsp;Clearly he doesn't need me to fix his hair, brush crumbs off his face, or hover over him. &nbsp;He has known how to put his own coat and hat on himself for some time. &nbsp;My kids' relentless maturity has necessitated the more frequent use of some of my other strategies. &nbsp;One of my favorites is to become invisible. &nbsp;When my more gregarious husband is making nice with the other people in the meeting, I dart through the crowd toward the door. &nbsp;Avoiding eye contact, I attempt to look like I have something I need to do "over there". &nbsp;I then find a way to move into a more empty room. &nbsp;When that room begins to fill, I move to wherever people aren't and repeat this pattern until it is time to go. &nbsp;I utilize the "Oh, I forgot something!" face and then go upstairs (and then downstairs and then upstairs again). &nbsp;The point is to be on the stairs or in the hallway or just outside the door where people are not. <br /><br />Sometimes people corner me and I have to talk to them. &nbsp;On a good day, I manage to smile in all the right places and make the right social noises. &nbsp;I remember to show great interest in them and to ask them about themselves in a non-threatening way. &nbsp;Other times I mumble monosyllabic responses&nbsp;to their questions and look frantically toward my husband to help me. &nbsp;When they turn toward him, I smile weakly and then pretend to fuss over one of my children or scurry off to a less populated part of the room where I marvel at how interesting the (fill in the blank) is. &nbsp;Isn't this an interesting (window, book, pamphlet)? &nbsp;I should look at it very closely and with focused concentration (at least until that clump of people threatening to notice me and maybe even speak to me moves to the other side of the room.)<br /><br />Church suppers are especially awkward. &nbsp;People get their food (how do they do that so easily? &nbsp;I'm so afraid I'll make a humiliating mistake!) and then sit down together to eat and talk. &nbsp;Eat <i>and</i> talk! &nbsp;As if each of these activities was not perilous enough on its own! &nbsp;I try to find a seat off to the side (and sometimes not with my more gregarious husband who is insensitively having cheerful conversations with people rather than helping to smuggle me out of the building.) &nbsp;I occasionally get up as if I've forgotten something and go hover "Somewhere Else" and then come back into the main room to find my children and fuss over them briefly before again finding an excuse to leave the room again. &nbsp;Fuss, hover, become fascinated by inanimate object, etc. &nbsp;Don't make eye contact. &nbsp;Stay close to the door. &nbsp;Jet as soon as possible. &nbsp;This is my meetinghouse survival plan.<br /><br />It isn't that I dislike people or even that I'm afraid of them. &nbsp;I'm not misanthropic (much) or shy (entirely). &nbsp;It is just that I prefer to watch people than to interact with them. &nbsp;If I could send out a beam of gentle concern to the whole meeting in a sort of non-verbal way that did not involve having to actually say anything or touch anybody, that would be great. &nbsp;I'd love to be a Deeply Meaningful Spiritual Presence, but instead I'm just awkward and uncomfortable. &nbsp;As hard as I try to become invisible or to shrink so small that no one notices me, inevitably, at the end of meeting for worship, someone will turn to me with an outstretched hand. <br /><br />Perhaps you have met someone like me in your meeting. &nbsp;Perhaps you have thought that person was unfriendly, socially impaired, cold, or distant. &nbsp;Maybe you even thought they were an asshole. &nbsp;Perhaps you've wondered about people like me. &nbsp;Perhaps you've felt sorry for us or wondered why we bother coming to meeting at all. &nbsp; Perhaps you are right. &nbsp;I too have considered these very things. &nbsp;Why am I so unfriendly? &nbsp;Why do I bother coming at all? <br /><br />&nbsp;The answer is that despite my awkwardness and seeming aloof disinterest in other Friends, I keep showing up because in the silent waiting worship, I am capable of reaching out with the kind of concern and attention that I cannot show during the social hour. &nbsp; Though I am uncomfortable navigating social spaces, in silent worship, I am a part of a community which allows me to feel that I can touch deeply and be deeply touched. &nbsp;When you spoke in meeting, my heart was pounding in sympathy and appreciation. &nbsp;I may have a tough time making eye contact with you, but when the silence deepened, I &nbsp;was there with you in the stillness between breaths. &nbsp;Hand shakes and hugs make me want to squirm right out of my skin, but in the midst of our silent worship, I am moved to tears by my sense of being gathered together in love. <br /><br />Please accept the fussers-over-children, the corner dwellers, and the early-leavetakers. &nbsp;Accept the monosyllabic responders and the frantic out-of-here darters as among the faithful Friends. &nbsp;We may be awkward as hell, but we are no less committed. &nbsp;Indeed, consider how in love we must be with the worship to be willing to so torture ourselves during coffee hour. &nbsp; How I wish I could be a friendlier Friend! &nbsp;Every Sunday when I scurry off to my corner to kick myself for not knowing just how the magic of casual conversation works, I wonder if I should forget the whole thing and just stay at home. &nbsp;Perhaps, I worry, other Friends also wish I would quit. &nbsp;Or perhaps they don't notice me at all. &nbsp;(God knows I try not to be noticed!) &nbsp;All I can say is this--and I do hope that in the end, it is enough: <br /><br />I may duck away from you or look slightly panicked when you reach for my hand at the rise of meeting, but a moment ago, when no one was looking, my heart was full of love for you, and I was holding you in the Light. Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-7746603701379453802013-11-21T17:17:00.003-08:002014-06-05T21:27:17.074-07:00The Adjunct's EpistleDear Dr. XXXX,<br /><br />Unfortunately, I was not able to pay the fee on the day I arrived at The XXXX Conference last week. As a low-income adjunct in the SUNY academic system, my experience of conferences is perhaps different than that of other academics. I include this explanation with my $55.00 registration fee not because I think it will make a difference, but because it seems to me that someone should say it and it might as well be me. There are a growing number of us who, despite our educations, our dedication, and our contributions are treated as second class citizens of the academic world. We work without tenure, without unions, and often without health insurance. We are paid less money to teach the same courses our full time peers teach. We often lack access to basics like computers, campus telephones, or office space to do our work and meet with our students. We have no job security and virtually no future in the academic field we passionately pursued as students. However much we love our work, our students, and our discipline, we are regarded as lesser than our tenured colleagues. In fact, we are the disposable workers of an exploitative system that relies on our poorly compensated labor.<br /><br />&nbsp;Because I am an adjunct a conference represents at best a worry and at worst a hardship rather than an opportunity. I teach four courses a semester and am therefore considered a part-time worker. I do not have health insurance through my work so I must rely on a subsidized health plan. It is not, I will tell you, a good health plan and therefore my health care costs are high. I literally had to consider cancelling healthcare appointments to afford to be a presenter in your conference.<br /><br />&nbsp;In order to come to your conference, I had to make sure I had child care and then I had to arrange for a ride to XXXX from XXXX. I had to cancel classes which I was loathe to do given the fact that without a union to protect me, I worry about any irregularities in my work schedule and usually work through illness lest I give anyone with power over me cause to complain. My family relies on my income and we could not afford to pay my student loans if I lost my job.<br /><br />&nbsp;The round trip to XXXX was almost seven hours long. I arrived immediately before my panel presentation and left at its conclusion. I could not afford to pay for a hotel room and therefore could not stay for the dinner. I could not, in fact, stay for any of the conference apart from my own presentation because of a lack of time and funds.<br /><br />&nbsp;So that’s my experience. It felt a good deal to me like I had to pay you for the privilege of researching and writing a panel presentation, cancelling my classes, and traveling for several hours to arrive on your sprawling campus where I spent the next half hour trying to figure out where I was supposed to be. (Signs would have been helpful.) I then had to turn right around and make the trip in reverse. I left the conference feeling very much like an adjunct. I felt ignored, discounted, unappreciated, and exploited.<br /><br />&nbsp;I write this not merely to vent feelings of frustration, but because I want my colleagues, whom I value and respect, to see me and to see adjuncts in general. We experience the academic world differently than our full-time colleagues do. We have much to offer, but our lack of resources and our growing numbers are a challenge to a functioning and cooperative scholarly community. Whether we are acknowledged or not, our challenges affect the entire academic community of educators and learners. I do not suspect that our working conditions are ignored by my full-time and tenured colleagues out of malice, but because it is easier to ignore such seemingly intractable problems than to address them. I do not expect a group planning a conference (and I know from experience what an exhausting and frustrating task that can be) to solve the adjunct issue. I just wanted to be a reminder that I am here, that we are here, in an academic system that is not the same as it was, not as good as it can be, and not as fair as it should be. I believe that whenever we can, those of us without privilege must appeal to those with it. I trust other historians and educators as allies and ask you to consider my words as you accept my money.<br /><br />&nbsp;Best wishes, etc. Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-63444828833626191842013-09-09T18:57:00.002-07:002013-09-09T18:58:15.146-07:00The Beacon Stoneb>BlackberryJuniper and Sherbet <i></i></b>is a blog that I love to read. It is one of those blogs that makes me feel a little as if I have come home and am talking to a dear friend and a little like I'm peeking into the life of someone I admire but will never meet. Sometimes I think of her words days and weeks and months after I've read them because they speak to me so strongly. She doesn't know it, but I carry her words around in my head like my beacon stone.<strike><strike></strike></strike>
I was asked to contribute a guest post to <b>Blackberry Juniper and Sherbet<i></i></b>. I was honored, but nervous that I'd embarass myself. Perhaps I have. In any case, it is there for those who wish to read it. With my thanks I offer
<a href="http://blackberryjuniperandsherbet.blogspot.com/2013/09/bjs-solsl-my-friend-hystery-ona-number.html">The Beacon Stone</a>
When you are there, continue reading to see why I love to spend time "over there" with an old friend I've never met.Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-36227094104456634022013-08-17T09:39:00.000-07:002013-08-17T09:39:18.910-07:00What's In a Name?My blog title is "Plainly Pagan." I kind of wish it wasn't because that gives folks the impression that I'm more interested in being Pagan than is actually the case. They might imagine me as "Pagan" as "Pagans" exist in their imaginations and experience rather than as I exist in my own imagination. (I exist outside my imagination too, I hope, although these days I'm never quite sure.) I am "Pagan" inasmuch as I find divinity in the natural world, have a strong thea/olgical tendency toward pantheism, and like to play with myths and metaphors with historical connections to pre-Christian, Neolithic, and Bronze Age literary, art historical, and religious traditions. But I'm not remotely interested in reconstructing these ancient traditions nor am I interested in practicing Neo-Paganism with other folks. My Paganism is a solitary exercise in introspection, playfulness, word-play, art history, religion studies, and archetypal theory. So far as those things are worshipful, then we might call what I do "worship". It looks a great deal more like studying, and I'm fine with that. In recent years, I'm finding that I don't like to call myself Pagan because it leads to immediate confusion. People assume that I'm Pagan. Which I am, but not really. Not the way they expect me to be. This leads to all kinds of uncomfortable exchanges based on their assumptions that I hold beliefs that I do not hold. You know. Pagan beliefs. In gods and goddesses or "the Goddess" or whatnot. They seem to assume ritual work, covens, festivals, and gatherings figure into my life. Not that there would be anything wrong with that, but I'm such a very introverted Pagan and a non-theistic one at that, that I can't imagine a Pagan gathering of any kind that would allow me to feel comfortable. Nor am I comfortable with Pagan Goddess-talk. My background is in feminist spirituality and I can't even use the term "Goddess" without wincing. While I value the metaphor as an intellectual device for feminist reclamation within the context of religious history, it is also not-quite-what-I'm-getting-at. Then too it is often spoken in emotional tones, and I'm too temperamentally Old Light Protestant for that to fail to make me squirm. Logical or not, I react to Goddess language in the same awkward, harrumphing way that I respond to evangelicalism and salvation-talk. Awkwardly. Someone might ask of me, "So, if you are so uncomfortable as a Pagan, why do you use the word in your blog title?" And my response is, "Because Plainly and Pagan both begin with a "P" and use clever (enough) word play to indicate spiritual ambiguity. Because I'm (technically) Pagan and a (relatively) plain Quaker which is goofy, and it seems a shame to waste perfectly good goofiness." I suppose I could just entitle my blog "The Rural Neurotic," my sister's term for me, as it is probably more accurate, but what if I removed the "Plainly Pagan" title and no one could find my blog anymore? (I fear being un-noticed almost as much as I fear being noticed.) Also, I hate to give up the Pagan title because that would mean that "they" have won and convinced me that because my Paganism doesn't match with more popular conceptions of Paganism that I don't qualify for the term. Well screw "them." (Also, I don't think that Pagan should begin with an upper case P. Why then, did I use it here? I have no earthly idea.) Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-82918353276075827252013-07-27T10:27:00.001-07:002013-07-27T10:27:34.902-07:00JohnHe was old, skinny,&nbsp;and wrinkled and he smelled strongly of cigarette smoke.&nbsp; I first met him as I trailed my father around the college like a puppy.&nbsp; Dad is big man on campus.&nbsp; I play the role of faithful, devoted daughter.&nbsp; I may have been there for a decade, but he's been there longer.&nbsp; He outranks me and overshadows me.&nbsp; I don't mind.&nbsp; When your father has as much charisma as my father does, you grow to appreciate the reflected glory.&nbsp; People like my father.&nbsp; A lot.&nbsp; They tend to&nbsp;congregate near&nbsp;him on campus and gather in his office where he holds court.&nbsp; People are just attracted to my father.&nbsp; John was one of those people.<br /><br />It sometimes happens that those who find my father appealing find me appealing too.&nbsp; John was one of those people as well.&nbsp; He took all the courses he could get with Dad and then began taking my courses.&nbsp; I think he must have taken every single class the two of us offered except for women's history.&nbsp; I never could get him to give that a shot.&nbsp; He did take African American history and Religions in America.&nbsp; The last turned out to be more important than I could guess.<br /><br />I can never remember how old John was.&nbsp; He looked very old.&nbsp; His eyes were old man blue behind the thick lenses of his glasses.&nbsp; His white hair, slicked back from his forehead, was thin and his skin was deeply furrowed.&nbsp; That may have been the smoking.&nbsp; He gave it up in the end, but until he did, every paper he ever turned in smelled so strongly of cigarettes that I had to keep his papers separate and wash my hands after I touched them.&nbsp; If his papers chanced to make it into my bag with the other books and documents, I had to air everything out --sometimes outside on the laundry line.&nbsp; He was always coughing and smoking and smoking and coughing.&nbsp; I remember him leaning into my father's car and talking to us about this and that.&nbsp; The smell was revolting, but somehow John was not.&nbsp; He was just John.<br /><br />I'm sure he didn't have a lot of money and I always figured he was a bit lonely.&nbsp; One semester, I planned a party for him and brought cupcakes and snacks and drinks into the classroom to celebrate his birthday.&nbsp; He was all gruff and embarrassed (as I would have been had he done the same for me), but I was glad I did it because he had been telling us how how old he was going to be for weeks, and I wanted him to know that I cared and that he was worth celebrating.&nbsp; <br /><br />In other semesters he teased me about my love of candy and brought me a huge box of chocolate for Valentine's Day with a note about making my husband jealous.&nbsp; He'd stop class to tell a joke or a story and I always let him.&nbsp; He was old, you see, and funny and charming too.&nbsp; I played the appreciative and indulgent young woman to his appreciative and witty old man.&nbsp; It suited us and somehow made the entire class a more entertaining and friendly place.&nbsp; At the beginning of each semester, he would give a little lecture to the other students about what a good professor I was.&nbsp; He'd tell them that I was tough, but that I cared.&nbsp; "She'll make you redo your work!" he warned them.&nbsp; I would too.&nbsp; I made him redo his work if I thought he wasn't giving me his best attenpt.&nbsp; I'd mock lecture him about following instructions.&nbsp; Not that it mattered.&nbsp; There was no way I would ever give him anything less than an A.&nbsp; He wasn't there for the education; he was there for the company.&nbsp; <br /><br />I teach conversation-based courses so people talk.&nbsp; They tell stories.&nbsp; And boy, could John tell stories!&nbsp; There were funny stories and jokes, sure, but there were also painful stories.&nbsp; He told us stories about racism and poverty, hard work and disappointment, and then how "Two guys&nbsp;walked into a bar..."&nbsp; He was from an Irish Catholic family in a blue collar town.&nbsp; His upbringing, so different from my own, was harsh, impoverished, and violent.&nbsp; His marriage had failed, and though I never knew his whole story, my father hinted that there was more to him, something darker and&nbsp;sadder,&nbsp;than the charming man who sat in the front row of my classroom cracking jokes and teasing the professor.&nbsp; It occurs to me that though I knew him for years, I did not really know him.&nbsp; But I loved him.<br /><br />Religions in America was the last class he took with me.&nbsp; He had already graduated from our college, the oldest person to do so, but he came back for more classes.&nbsp; He needed to be among the young folks.&nbsp; He was also very proud of himself because he had learned to use a computer.&nbsp; Even more&nbsp;impressively, he&nbsp;had stopped smoking, but his breathing had become so labored that it made the rest of us in the room worried and uncomfortable.&nbsp; One day he came in late to class because he had fallen trying to enter the building.&nbsp; He was getting weak.&nbsp; I fussed and worried over him, and lectured him about taking care of himself.&nbsp; When Dad pulled up to the college to drop me off, we could see him struggling to get up the steps to come to class.&nbsp; We knew he was dying, but he brushed it off.&nbsp; Always joking, John was.<br /><br />But the joking had become a kind of dischordant note.&nbsp; Like his labored breathing, his humor was forced and painful.&nbsp; That semester, John's grandson committed suicide.&nbsp; The boy had called John just before taking his own life, and John was haunted by it.&nbsp; It finished him.&nbsp; Eventually he had to stop coming to class.&nbsp; He was hospitalized and called me from his hospital bed.&nbsp; We chatted and I told him that of course, he had earned an A for the class.&nbsp; He let me know that I had been a friend.&nbsp; I let him know that I cared about him.&nbsp; And that was it.&nbsp; That was all.<br /><br />I don't remember how I learned that he had died.&nbsp; Perhaps my father told me.&nbsp; Maybe it came in a message in campus email.&nbsp; I do remember that I wept.&nbsp; I was angry with myself for failing to visit him in the hospital.&nbsp; I was angry with myself for being surprised.&nbsp; I reread his papers.&nbsp; Even there he was a character.&nbsp; He never took my assignments very seriously.&nbsp; He wrote in pen when I asked him to use a computer.&nbsp; He told his own stories when I asked him to cite sources.&nbsp; No matter.&nbsp; He&nbsp;said what he needed to say and what I wanted to hear from him.&nbsp; His own life taught him everything I wanted my students to learn in History.&nbsp; Life is funny and hard and fierce.&nbsp; You aren't better than the next guy.&nbsp; Be kind.&nbsp; Be fair.&nbsp; Don't judge.<br /><br />It has been a couple years since he died.&nbsp; Last week I found&nbsp;one of the last papers he wrote for me.&nbsp; It was about God.&nbsp; He believed deeply.&nbsp; I'm glad of that.&nbsp; It makes it easier for me.&nbsp; "Oh, John..." I muttered to myself as I sometimes do when he comes into my memory, and then I put his papers away to save forever.&nbsp; They belong with the poems I wrote as a girl, letters from beloved family, and stories I wrote as a child.&nbsp; His papers (and his memory) belong with the stuff that made me who I am.&nbsp; It seems I can't be rid of him.&nbsp; He isn't done with me.&nbsp; A few days later, the local newspaper printed an article about our college's financial woes and labor disputes.&nbsp; Incongruously and illogically, they printed a picture of him in his cap and gown, fists raised high in celebration.&nbsp; I cried when I saw his face again.&nbsp; Had he really been so frail and skeletal?&nbsp; I hadn't remembered that.<br /><br />Some weeks ago I went to see a Spiritualist medium.&nbsp; I was curious and really wanted to see what it was like so I laid down my money and gave it a go expecting to hear from great-grandparents, aunts, and uncles.&nbsp; The woman told me about a man who wanted to let me know he was there.&nbsp; "He was skinny," she told me, "like a skeleton."&nbsp; She told me that people weren't sure about him, that they never knew what to think about him, but he was okay.&nbsp; They didn't need to worry about him.&nbsp; "He had a lot of respect for your family," she told me.&nbsp; We were important to him.<br /><br />It had to be John.&nbsp; There was a connection there though I never&nbsp;quite figured out why.&nbsp; I was his "teacher" though he was several decades my senior.&nbsp;&nbsp; We flirted with each other the way only an old man and a much younger woman can.&nbsp; I fussed over him as if he were my grandfather, or my child, and he praised me in front of other people as if I was his mentor...or his grandchild.&nbsp; And all the while I had no idea just who he was.&nbsp; I never knew his whole story or half of the pain and the mistakes that haunted him.&nbsp;&nbsp;But I know that whatever haunted him, he's haunting me&nbsp;now, and it will be a long time before he and I go our different ways. I close my eyes and I can imagine a big box of chocolates.&nbsp; I can imagine his corny jokes.&nbsp; I can imagine the smell of cigarettes.&nbsp; I don't know why John decided to love us or why we decided to love him.&nbsp; I guess it was just one of those things.&nbsp; Sometimes that's all there is to it.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-30392361043095615312013-07-23T16:08:00.000-07:002013-07-26T22:46:15.938-07:00The Jerk in Grandpa's Paint Shop and Micah 6:8<em><blockquote class="tr_bq"><em>He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.&nbsp; </em></blockquote></em>(Micah 6:8) <br /><br /><br />My family and I have been attending a semi-programmed Quaker meeting.&nbsp; There are hymns and a brief message followed by silent waiting worship and a concluding hymn.&nbsp; Recently, I heard one of the best sermons I have ever heard in which the speaker, a member of the congregation, reflected upon Micah 6:8.&nbsp; I can't really say much about the sermon because it was delivered so humbly and simply that it had an eloquence that would only be ruined by my own verbose attempts to comment upon it.<br /><br />In the silent worship that followed, a few speakers rose to share messages.&nbsp; I was the last to do so.&nbsp; This is the story I told:<br /><br /><em><blockquote class="tr_bq"><em>My grandfather had bowed legs and a stutter.&nbsp; People thought he really wasn't very smart because of this, but he was.&nbsp; Sometimes, instead of talking to him, they'd look past him and talk to my grandmother instead.&nbsp; "What did he say?" they'd ask as if he wasn't there.&nbsp; People&nbsp;couldn't be bothered to&nbsp;listen to him.&nbsp; It used to make me so angry.</em><br /><br /><em>Grandpa&nbsp;owned a small paint manufacturing company&nbsp;housed in&nbsp;an old stone blacksmith shop.&nbsp; One day, when I was&nbsp;a teenager, a man came into the shop.&nbsp; I watched as he talked past my grandfather to my grandmother.&nbsp; "How's the old guy doing?" he asked her as if my grandfather wasn't there.&nbsp; He was insulting and dismissive, but Grandpa didn't strike back.&nbsp; Instead, he kept quietly telling my grandmother to add items in the bag and to decrease the cost.&nbsp; I couldn't believe it.&nbsp; Instead of retaliating against this jerk, my grandfather was giving him free stuff and decreasing the price of his purchase?&nbsp; I sat on the chair next to the counter and seethed.&nbsp; It wasn't fair!</em><br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><em></em></blockquote></blockquote></em><em><em><em><em><em><em><em><em><blockquote class="tr_bq"><em><em><em><em><em><em><em><em>The man continued with his bluster, and my grandfather continued in his quiet manner to complete the transaction.&nbsp; Then Grandpa said, "She was a good woman.&nbsp; We'll miss her."&nbsp; </em></em></em><em>The man's entire demeanor changed and the bluster stopped.&nbsp; My grandfather knew, although I did not, that the man I saw as just a jerk was a&nbsp;human being&nbsp;in a great deal of pain.&nbsp; The man told my grandfather how hard things had been and Grandpa listened.&nbsp; M</em><em>y grandfather&nbsp;was merciful</em></em></em></em></em></em></blockquote></em></em></em><em>.</em></em></em></em></em></em> <br /><br />&nbsp;That was all I had to say and then we sang Amazing Grace together. <br /><em><blockquote class="tr_bq"><em>Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound</em><br /><em>that saved a wretch like me.</em><br /><em>I once was lost, but now am found</em><br /><em>was blind but now I see.</em></blockquote></em><br />I'm not sure what any of this means or why I was called to share that story in meeting for worship, but I've been thinking about it ever since.&nbsp; I spend so much time trying to figure stuff out, but maybe it is a good deal more simple than I make it.&nbsp; Grandpa just chose kindness and let justice follow on its heels.&nbsp; If I had rushed to my grandfather's defense that day, I would have done so believing I was defending a vulnerable old man from a callous jackass.&nbsp; There's justice in that, but no mercy and certainly no humility.&nbsp; I would have missed the moment when my grandfather's kindness stopped time in my heart.&nbsp; Almost thirty years later the power of that moment still fills me with wonder and brings me to tears.&nbsp; <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-73169887110990979702013-07-03T20:01:00.000-07:002013-07-03T20:01:40.851-07:00Shadow Self<br />Somewhere between the days when I was brash, confident, and bright and today (when I am none of those things), I think I must have taken a couple funny turns.&nbsp; I thought I'd be a scholar and a writer.&nbsp; I am only an adjunct in a rural community college, and therefore, in the academic world and to borrow one of my father's favorite phrases, lower than whale shit.&nbsp; Far from being able to finish the book on which I've worked for longer than I care to say, I cannot even submit a blog post on a regular schedule.&nbsp; I thought I'd have a lovely Victorian home filled with books, plants, and tasteful paintings.&nbsp; Instead I&nbsp;live in my parents' basement with no windows large enough to support more than a couple sickly plants.&nbsp; The same art prints I bought as a teenager hang in cheap frames on cement block walls.&nbsp; To be fair, I'm here because I need to be here to help my parents care for my grandmother, but still, Better Homes and Gardens this ain't.<br /><br />I also (mostly) hate my job, though there is some good in the work.&nbsp; I have found that if I focus on each student not as student but as "some mother's child," then I enjoy teaching them, praising them, finding beauty in them.&nbsp; But otherwise, my job is demoralizing.&nbsp; My students are there to get a degrees to work in fields for which they have no passion but will increase their wages from 7 and a quarter dollars to ten.&nbsp; They don't care about theory, or art, or spirit.&nbsp; Most of them just want a grade and to get the hell out of there.&nbsp; Worse still is the contempt that other academics and administrators have for the lowly adjunct.&nbsp; I work without benefits or recognition on a pay scale so far inferior to that of a full time faculty member that it is laughable.&nbsp; Except I never seem to laugh.<br /><br />At my worst,&nbsp; I am the distortion of the person I feel called to be.&nbsp; I am nervous instead of nurturing.&nbsp; I'm a hypochondriac instead of a healer.&nbsp; I am judgmental instead of discerning.&nbsp; My arrogance is only a parody of a wholesome confidence.&nbsp; I take too much pride in my neuroses and find comfort in being curmudgeonly, cool, and distant.&nbsp; I mock others' sentiment and cannot speak even of my own pain without chasing it with derision. <br /><br />I am a mother and a housewife, but it is my parents' home I keep and it is, increasingly, my grandmother rather than my own children who require my concern and care.&nbsp; Even my youngest child shows signs of maturing beyond his need for a mommy.&nbsp; He called me "Mom"&nbsp;recently and nearly broke my heart.&nbsp; My grandmother, meanwhile, is increasingly frail and increasingly emotionally distant.&nbsp; She needs my help, but does not ask for love.<br /><br />So what?&nbsp; So, this.&nbsp; This is when a person realizes that there are times in life when the best thing is to ignore one's ambitions and do what must be done.&nbsp; Sometimes that means setting aside one's self in order to serve where one is needed.&nbsp; My students need me.&nbsp; My children need me (for a little while at least).&nbsp; My parents, husband, and grandmother need me.&nbsp; I cannot help them if I am writing or playing at being a theorist, thealogian, or even a witchy gardener.&nbsp; Those things are not called for.&nbsp; Not now.&nbsp; Not yet.&nbsp; Perhaps there will come a time when I will rediscover who I am.&nbsp; But not today.&nbsp; Whatever else I am called to be in the fullness of time must be ignored in the here and now when the every-blessed-day stuff must be completed by every set of available hands. ...................................................<br /><br /><br />Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-44473277804232577462013-07-02T12:16:00.000-07:002013-07-03T17:04:57.098-07:00When I was 18I've had terrible writer's block.&nbsp; Awful. &nbsp;Day after day goes by and I don't write. &nbsp; Darn it.&nbsp; Why can't I write?!<br /><br />So I've asked for some assistance from readers of this blog and I've received some good ideas for writing exercises that may help me with my difficulty.&nbsp; I think I'll start with this one given to me by RantWoman.<br /><br /><i>"When I was 18, I knew everything. Luckily I have forgotten a lot since then." Discuss</i><br /><br />I didn't know everything when I was eighteen and I was not confident that I did.&nbsp;I was reared and socialized in the church among elderly folks so I guess I didn't develop the same kind of teenager vibe other kids get.&nbsp; Other 18 year old kids scared me.&nbsp; I made a study of avoiding them.&nbsp; To this day, unless I'm playing the role of professor, I avoid young adults because they still make me feel nervous and inferior.&nbsp; This can be problematic because&nbsp;to avoid anxiety attacks, I occasionally&nbsp;have to avoid eating or shopping in places where they hang out.<br /><br />The year I turned eighteen I was attending a community college in lieu of my senior year of high school.&nbsp; Being able to attend college instead of returning for a final year of high school was a blessing.&nbsp; It was heaven to be on a college campus where I could focus on my studies&nbsp;instead of having to wake up each day with that sickening fear that went along with having to walk into that high school building.&nbsp;&nbsp; I was a "Brain" and that is not a good thing to be if one is a girl. Not in a public school in a rural, blue collar community. Luckily, I was ignored more often than I was bullied.<br /><br />Reluctantly, I got my driver's license at 18, but only because&nbsp; I had to drive myself to college each day, and&nbsp;could no longer justify delaying the inevitable.&nbsp; I knew other kids were thrilled about turning 16 and getting their learner's permits.&nbsp; Not me.&nbsp; From 16 to 18 I'd been avoiding it because I was certain that driving would be horrifying.&nbsp; Terrified of getting into an accident and even more terrified of annoying other drivers with my beginner's mistakes, I even hid my learner's permit test prep booklet and intentionally forgot the hiding place (I found it later under the dog bed mattress) to avoid having to study for the test.<br /><br />But at 18, regardless of my feelings on the matter,&nbsp;I found myself driving.&nbsp; I became pretty proficient as long as I could stay on familiar routes.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; My parents bought cars that were easy for me to drive to ease my experience.&nbsp; It was not wholly unpleasant although I was still white-knuckled much of the time and had to psych myself up for each excursion.&nbsp; Thankfully, I did not have to drive for long.&nbsp; Eventually I was able to turn the wheel over to more confident hands when I married my husband.&nbsp; I stopped driving when I was 23.&nbsp; <br /><br />I also&nbsp;had my first date at 18.&nbsp; (I met my husband some years later).&nbsp;&nbsp;My first date&nbsp;was a nice enough boy.&nbsp; He was popular and good-enough-looking, but a bit of a dullard.&nbsp; We went to a school play, and that was about that.&nbsp; Pretty lukewarm on the romance side.&nbsp; What was remarkable was that he noticed me at all.&nbsp; I had never before been the positive object of male attention and had therefore assumed that I was probably repulsive.&nbsp;&nbsp;The only time&nbsp;a boy asked to kiss me was&nbsp;on a dare and he told me he needed the lunch money.&nbsp; Needless to say, I declined the invitation and then went home and cried.&nbsp;<br /><br />So by 18, I had not yet developed a sense of myself as a person of worth to anyone outside of my family.&nbsp; I treasured the love and acceptance my parents showered upon me so although I was often difficult and snarly, I also was devoted to them and convinced of their brilliance.&nbsp; My inability to fit in anywhere else pushed me deeper into my studies, but also pushed me to view older adults with thankfulness.&nbsp; Because&nbsp;grown-ups seemed so comfortable in their own skins, and because they seemed to have both superior knowledge and the confidence I lacked, I did not become the kind of teenager who rolls her eyes at them.<br /><br />I was becoming the adult I am today.&nbsp; The things that mattered to me are the same:&nbsp; family, intellectual rigor, honesty, decency.&nbsp; My weaknesses are the same:&nbsp; emotional fragility, anxiety.&nbsp; My relationship with gender, though evolved beyond that of the deep insecurities of an adolescent, is still strained and a bit surreal.&nbsp; I'm better educated than I was at 18 and therefore less confident in myself and the promises of the world.&nbsp; I'm better able to stand my weaknesses than I could as a girl.&nbsp; If&nbsp;I were to travel back in time to speak to that young woman I would tell her that she knew more than she thought she did.&nbsp; I would&nbsp;assure her that others' would learn to&nbsp;find value in her even if she never became very likable.&nbsp; &nbsp; I would tell her that being liked is not nearly as good as being honorable.&nbsp; I would tell her that integrity is a thousand times more worth cultivating than popularity.&nbsp; I would tell her she was on the right track.&nbsp; But I would not tell her much more because, being so inexperienced, she was still very hopeful that she would flower into something special, and I wouldn't want to take that hope&nbsp;from her by telling her about&nbsp;future failures and struggles.&nbsp; The memory of her hope that she would become a success&nbsp;is&nbsp;a sustaining memory for me.<br /><br />It is funny to me when students ask for my advice or when they respond to me with unveiled admiration.&nbsp; I know that I am not at all the confident and together person they assume I am.&nbsp; They do not see how much of the uncertain eighteen year old is still with me.&nbsp; They are unaware of my self-doubt, sense of failure, and frustration.&nbsp; Perhaps there are many adults who feel as I do.&nbsp; Perhaps I am not the only one who never seemed to outgrow the fears and anxieties of adolescence.&nbsp; What is my role in life?&nbsp; How do I navigate this gender thing?&nbsp; Who am I?&nbsp; Why do I feel like such a misfit?&nbsp; Why is the world so scary?&nbsp; How do I satisfy everyone's expectations of me?&nbsp; What if everyone discovers that I'm just a pathetic loser?<br /><br />I may not feel that way all the time, but it happens often enough to comment on here.&nbsp; The reason I share it is just this:<br /><br />I think these feelings of inadequacy, fear, and isolation can be instruments of love.&nbsp; I know what it is like to feel vulnerable and alone.&nbsp; I can use that feeling to help me become more gentle with others.&nbsp; People called me "aloof, arrogant, and snobbish" when I was really scared, shy, and convinced that I was unlikeable.&nbsp;&nbsp; It is good for me to remember how well I have covered up my own weaknesses and fears.&nbsp; It is good to remember too that no matter how expertly I cover my fear, I cannot escape it, and it still hurts.<br /><br />So&nbsp;if I know how well I can bluff, I&nbsp;also know that others may be bluffing too.&nbsp; I'll try to remember that a show of confidence is not the same thing as confidence.&nbsp;&nbsp;Bravado and cheekiness&nbsp;can hide vulnerability.&nbsp; So when I'm&nbsp;out in the world, and especially when I'm teaching, &nbsp;I'll remember that sometimes adolescence hurts.&nbsp; Heck, sometimes being human hurts.&nbsp; I'll remember my own hurt and try to respond with love instead of anger and compassion instead of judgement.&nbsp;&nbsp; You never know when the "brain" or the "jock" or the "geek" or the "princess" (no matter what their age) is really just a frightened and lonely kid.<br /><br /><br />Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-53829402925067029082013-07-01T19:44:00.000-07:002013-07-01T19:50:34.752-07:00Grandma, Grandpa, and the Handsome Ex-BoyfriendGrandpa was already quite old by the time I was born. &nbsp;His face was wrinkled and his knees bowed.&nbsp; The veins stood out of his hands and his hair was thin.&nbsp; Even so, I didn't think of him as old. I thought of him as Grandpa. He was ageless. He was always there and always would be. I did not understand why he was teary when we had to leave him for any length of time. He was&nbsp;often afraid he would die before we came home to him again. His parents and five of his seven brothers and sisters had all died young, and he was always preparing us for his own early death.&nbsp; Always planning ahead, Grandpa was.&nbsp; <br /><br />More than anything, he wanted to make sure my grandmother would be well cared for after he passed away. They were a funny couple, my grandparents. He was long-limbed and blond while she was a tiny woman with waves of dark brown hair. He was gentle and shy, struggled with a speech impediment and knew what it felt like to be different. He was careful with other people's feelings, slow to anger, quick to tears, and more comfortable with children than with adults. <br /><br />Grandma, on the other hand, had an abundance of confidence. She had been both smart and pretty as a girl and was smart and beautiful as an adult. She was powerful too, and had a commanding presence with a biting wit. She could be intimidating despite her diminutive form. I think, despite the fact that Grandma frequently gave my grandfather hell, that he adored her. I can remember him looking at her with a slight smile playing across his lips and that twinkle in his eye like he couldn't believe, even after decades of marriage, how lucky he was to have her. He was a shy, orphaned farmer boy with a stutter and he had married an acknowledged beauty with a biting wit. <br /><br />Grandma knew she was beautiful too. When I was a child, a photograph of her&nbsp;from the 1930s hung above her dressing table.&nbsp; "You were beautiful," I said in admiration.&nbsp; "Yes.&nbsp; I suppose I was," she said without vanity.&nbsp; It was just a fact.&nbsp; I grew up hearing about her dates with various&nbsp;boys in town including&nbsp;Chet G___., who was athletic, handsome, and popular.&nbsp; &nbsp;I loved to hear about car rides on the rumble seats or the time she kept popping hoarhound candy in one obnoxious fellow's mouth just to keep him from kissing her.&nbsp; Grandma did not have a difficult time finding men to court her,&nbsp; but she wasn't going to settle on just anyone. The man who married my grandmother had to be strong enough to handle her. Or nearly strong enough to handle her anyhow. As an old man, my grandfather marveled at a rather large nurse who was looking after him. My father joked with Grandpa, "Got a thing for her, do you?" My grandfather smiled. "Nah," he said, "I've got five feet more woman than I can handle right now."<br /><br />He really never could handle my grandmother, not in the old-fashioned&nbsp;patriarchal sense.&nbsp; It is difficult to imagine that he ever tried.&nbsp; What would be the point?&nbsp; In the 1940s and 1950s when other men were trying to fit into the hyper-masculine, man in the gray flannel suit, post-war model of manhood, my grandfather must have seemed like some kind of alien.&nbsp; The son of a suffragist, he seemed to subscribe to the idea that a man's job is to support his wife in the care of the family.&nbsp; We have stories about him cooking on weekends so Grandma could rest, of him helping with the arduous task of cleaning diapers before they had heated water or washing machines, of him taking the children on long hikes to give her some free time, and of him honoring her decisions and taking pride in her accomplishments.<br /><br />Grandpa was a loyal, protective, and adoring husband in the 59 years they were together before he passed away.&nbsp; I never heard her tell him that she loved him and she didn't cry for him at his funeral or in the days following unless she did so when no one could see her.&nbsp; But on the day he died, she wore one of his old shirts and she looked lost and bewildered.&nbsp; After I spoke at his funeral, she said to me in a tone that comes as close as she ever comes to affectionate, "That was well done."&nbsp; And that was that.&nbsp; <br /><br />But she must have loved him.&nbsp; On the few occasions when he was cross with her, I can recall her climbing onto his lap and stroking his hair.&nbsp; She didn't have to say a thing.&nbsp; He couldn't resist her, and his anger just seemed to melt away with her touch.&nbsp; I also remember how she called him when he was at work to tell him about her day.&nbsp; She'd call him on that old black telephone, sit right on the edge of her seat, and chatter to him about this happening or that, this friend or another with as much enthusiasm as a teenager.&nbsp; Though I couldn't see him where he sat across town&nbsp;in the old paint shop, I knew he was listening closely, and I could imagine how his eyes&nbsp;twinkled with appreciation for his clever, pretty little wife.<br /><br />I bet Chet.G.,, Grandma's old flame,&nbsp;thought she was pretty too.&nbsp; I'd heard about him, but had never seen a photo of him until recently when old village sports team photographs went on display in one of the downtown storefront windows.&nbsp; My mother, sister, and I located him among the other ballplayers and agreed immediately that he was, without a doubt, a good-looking young man.&nbsp; He was big man on campus and graduated to become a big man in the community.&nbsp; He stood out among the other boys with his roguishly handsome face and his easy confidence.&nbsp; I could imagine my grandmother at his side with her dark curls, rosy cheeks, and blue eyes.&nbsp; Grandma always had a gorgeous figure too.&nbsp; She was slender, but she had great curves.&nbsp; They must have been a great-looking couple.&nbsp; But she didn't choose Chet.G.&nbsp; She chose the orphaned son of a dairy farmer.<br /><br />I'll never know just why my grandmother settled on the shy farmboy with a speech impediment and the bad knees although I think it was the right choice.&nbsp; As I've said, she was smart as well as pretty, and she wasn't about to sacrifice herself on the altar of romantic love.&nbsp; Not that my grandfather didn't love her or that theirs was not a relationship rich in romance.&nbsp; They could be spicy and racy at times and there are plenty of stories about them that are designed to make children and grandchildren blush and protest in mock horror.&nbsp; But they had more than a lusty relationship.&nbsp; My grandfather honored and respected her.&nbsp; For me, one story says it all.&nbsp; When it came time for them to buy a house together, my grandmother found one she liked.&nbsp; She told Grandpa about it and he said they should buy it.&nbsp; <br /><br />"Don't you want to see it first?" Grandma asked.<br /><br />"Can you raise a family there?" Grandpa asked in return.&nbsp; When Grandma answered in the affirmative, my grandfather told her that was all he needed to know.&nbsp; <br /><br />If she said the house was good enough for their family, then it was so.&nbsp; He bought the house on her word alone.&nbsp; He believed in her intelligence, in her goodness, and in her capabilities.&nbsp; I never saw him behave rudely or harshly toward her.&nbsp; I never heard him raise his voice to her or try to run her down.&nbsp; Whenever he looked at her, I'd swear he thought the sun rose and set on her.&nbsp; Like all the other boys, he probably thought she was a sweet young thing when he first saw her, but every day he knew her, she grew more cherished and more remarkable in his sight.&nbsp; More than that, he honored her as a woman, as a human being, and as his beloved partner.&nbsp; He trusted her and she trusted him right back.&nbsp; I'd like to see old Chet.G. compete with that.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-37214600103349931262013-05-16T16:54:00.000-07:002013-05-16T16:54:12.384-07:00My Grandparents: Stream of Consciousness Memories. Part 1. My grandfather went to college on a basketball scholarship.&nbsp; I was told that he could palm a basketball in one hand.&nbsp; I never actually saw him do this, but I do remember his hands very well.&nbsp; I used to sit on his lap while he held my little hands, still dimpled and plump, in his own.&nbsp; His fingers were long and graceful.&nbsp; The veins stood out in them and the fingers tapered.&nbsp; He would hold my thumb and tell me just how much a marvel&nbsp;it was and about all the potential a human being carried in her hand just because of&nbsp; the opposable thumb.&nbsp; <br /><br />I recall Grandpa's hands cutting apples with a pocket knife.&nbsp; I never actually wanted to eat those apples because I was a fussy child and could not be sure just how clean that knife was.&nbsp;&nbsp;But I ate them anyway even though they tasted funny and were unpleasantly warmed by his hands.&nbsp; I knew, even then, that this awkwardness was somehow intrinsic to his personality.&nbsp; He was shy and&nbsp;had a speech impediment.&nbsp; His knees were bad and made him bow-legged.&nbsp; His clothes were worn and stained with paint.&nbsp; He always smelled of paint thinner.&nbsp; He&nbsp;never said much, but&nbsp;then words could never have measured up to the love he had for all us kids.&nbsp;&nbsp;I ate those warm apple slices for the same reason I&nbsp;let him tuck blankets around me when I rested on the couch&nbsp;at his house.&nbsp; It could right smack dab in the boiling heat of summer and Grandpa would tuck me in as if he feared&nbsp;the arctic winds would tear me away from him.&nbsp; I'd lie there&nbsp;and sweat under a pile of afghans&nbsp;content in the knowledge that no one loved me more than he did.<br /><br />I held my grandfather's hands as we walked through the village near his paint shop.&nbsp; One day an old woman saw him with my sister and me.&nbsp; We were sporting short haircuts and wearing rugged play clothes.&nbsp; She complimented him on his grandsons.&nbsp; Grandpa didn't say anything to her, but he was deeply offended.&nbsp; "Stupid old biddy," he muttered to himself as we continued walking.&nbsp; It was one of the only uncharitable things I ever heard him say--&nbsp;and he said it out of love for us.<br /><br />Grandpa's paint shop was housed in an old stone building that had once been the blacksmith's shop.&nbsp; I loved to visit him there and watch him work.&nbsp; I loved to look at his inventory and browse through the wallpaper and paint sample books.&nbsp; An ancient glass case on his counter held even more ancient Indian arrow heads and other treasures.&nbsp; The windows behind the counter were full of African violets, my grandmother's contribution to the shop decor.&nbsp; In the back rooms were the giant paint mixers (one for red barn paint and one for white house paint).&nbsp; They were each large enough for a man to fit inside and Grandpa told us that they were cobblestoned by "midgets."&nbsp; It was a lost art because, he said sadly, there simply are "no more cobblestoning midgets."&nbsp; <br /><br />I think this was a joke.&nbsp; Although it may not have been.&nbsp; You could never tell with him.&nbsp; He spoke little and laughed even less frequently.&nbsp; Not that he was serious.&nbsp; His eyes often twinkled when he was pulling someone's leg.&nbsp; We didn't always catch it though.&nbsp;&nbsp;He told us about hill cows with two legs shorter on one side so they wouldn't roll down the hills and about&nbsp;the little man who ran ahead of the car to turn on the lights on all the roadside reflectors.<br /><br />Mostly Grandpa was pretty quiet and serious.&nbsp; He didn't laugh or speak loudly even when he was joking.&nbsp; I never heard him yell.&nbsp; To visit with him was to sit quietly by his side.&nbsp; When the rest of the family (and there are lots and lots of us) gathered, he would retire to another room.&nbsp; It wasn't that he didn't like to be near us, but I think that he was so quiet and shy a person that it overwhelmed him to be in the center of things.&nbsp; One or two of us would go in and sit with him.&nbsp; He was not chatty and never boastful, but he would sometimes ask one of us to tell him about our accomplishments.&nbsp; In those times, he beamed with pride.<br /><br />Grandpa always had a fine sense of the beauty of small things.&nbsp; He would often comment about the way an object felt in one's hand.&nbsp; He especially liked the smooth, heaviness of water-worn rocks.&nbsp; There were piles of these rocks, plain, speckled, and striped all over his house.&nbsp; They are all over my house now- a great inheritance of lake stones.&nbsp; One of my greatest treasures is a rock my grandfather picked up on the shores of Lake Ontario.&nbsp; It is a smooth, black stone my grandfather called his "worry stone."&nbsp; When I was a young woman, he took it from his pocket and placed it in my hands.&nbsp; He told me that his worries were over and mine were just beginning.&nbsp; This turned out to only be partly accurate.&nbsp; My worries, truly, were just beginning, but his were hardly at an end.&nbsp; His last years were marked by anxiety and pain.<br /><br />I remember Grandpa's hands at the end of his life.&nbsp; He seemed always to be reaching for something that wasn't there.&nbsp; "What do you want, Dad?" his kids would say.&nbsp; His face looked haunted and confused as he dropped his trembling hand then reached again.&nbsp; He had dementia for five years before he passed away.&nbsp; Those were hard years for us.&nbsp; Dementia is surreal and unkind, an agony that an entire family must endure together.&nbsp; I think of the story of a drop of ice water in the fires of hell.&nbsp; Moments of lucidity in the midst of dementia are a bit like that.&nbsp; I can think of few things more precious and I am glad, very glad, that we could share those last difficult years with him.&nbsp; At one point, at the beginning of the long good-bye, he could not speak so we put a pencil in his hand and with his long, graceful, and trembling fingers he scrawled the words, "You are my family.&nbsp; You are my life."&nbsp; But we already knew that.&nbsp; He may never have said the words, but he didn't need to.&nbsp; His whole life told us.<br /><br />Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-47083011816437461222013-04-12T21:28:00.000-07:002013-04-12T21:28:53.848-07:00Scatter-brainedSometimes, when I'm trying to accomplish something outside my daily routine I feel as though I'm trying to reach for something on a tall cupboard shelf while balancing on one roller skate.&nbsp; The children need my time.&nbsp; The house requires work.&nbsp; My mother and father need my help.&nbsp; My grandmother requires care.&nbsp; My students clamor for my attention.&nbsp; Papers need grading.&nbsp; Lectures must be written and lessons must be planned.&nbsp; Speeches and costumes have to be prepared.&nbsp; Animals need attention.&nbsp; Plants need tending...and then.&nbsp;<br /><br />And then I try to read something and my mind just....<br /><br />I get so distracted.&nbsp; I begin to read a blog or an article and my mind does this annoying jumpy thing.&nbsp; I keep beginning articles at the end.&nbsp; I then skip up toward the middle and then up again to the top. I scan downwards for details that might interest me before realizing there are no details <i>anywhere, ever</i> that interest me.&nbsp; This all takes place within the first minute or two.&nbsp; Within moments, I grow intolerant of my own tedious inattention and skip to something else.&nbsp; When I try to write, I find myself growing impatient or weary or discouraged by the process.&nbsp; Nothing seems right.&nbsp; All my words come out lumpy and flattened on one side.&nbsp; My ideas seem all disheveled like I slept in them.&nbsp; Or they're all raw and angry as if I filtered them through some melancholic adolescent.&nbsp;<br /><br />It frustrates me to be so incapable of keeping it together.&nbsp; I used to be (or at least I once thought I was) smart.&nbsp; I sure don't feel smart these days.&nbsp; I'm a regular dullard.&nbsp; I can't even comment on others' blogs because I haven't anything clever to say.&nbsp; I read my own comments to myself and realize I may as well be that weirdo who blurts out irrelevancies ("I like beans!") into sophisticated grown-up conversations.&nbsp;<br /><br />I toy with the idea of eliminating this blog because it makes no real sense to keep it going.&nbsp; I haven't anything interesting to say.&nbsp; We've pretty well established that I'm neurotic and gloomy.&nbsp; That can only go so far.&nbsp;<br /><br />And yet.&nbsp; Hmm.&nbsp; After so many months I'm apparently drawn back to it.&nbsp; (I keep using passive voice.&nbsp; I should analyze what that means later...)<br /><br />I think maybe I want popcorn.&nbsp; Or beans.&nbsp; I like beans.Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-69885188621882524952013-04-05T17:09:00.000-07:002013-04-05T17:09:11.405-07:00Coven or Solitary? A very short post:<br /><br />Sometimes I like to respond to a pagan blog post challenge.&nbsp; This week's question is asks if I prefer to worship as a solitary pagan or within a coven.<br /><br />I prefer to worship, as a Pagan, outside of a coven.&nbsp; My Paganism has always seemed a very poor fit with those of other Pagans.&nbsp; When I do worship with others, I very much prefer to worship with Christians.&nbsp; I love being around liberal Christians and get closest to a sense of the divine when I am in conversation with them.&nbsp; I love that.Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-89661967267557360352013-03-24T07:25:00.001-07:002013-03-24T07:25:54.759-07:00Spring's ArrivalIt is the end of March in western New York.&nbsp; Only a few brave green shoots have poked their heads above ground, but they've been there for weeks and show no sign that they wish to commit themselves further.<br />Gray branches sway against white sky, and patches of dirty snow lie on the frozen mud.&nbsp; Early winter snow is all snow fairies and magic.&nbsp; It falls softly like a blessing.&nbsp; Months later, the snow is a stubborn thing.&nbsp; Contemptuous of human calendars, it seems to mock all our hopes for spring.&nbsp; <br /><br />March is New York's ugliest month.&nbsp; Perhaps it is because our expectations are so high.&nbsp; When the snow begins to fly in November or even in October, a person is winter-weary by Christmas.&nbsp; January and February drag on tiresomely, and the spring equinox looks mighty enticing from the middle of a blustery winter day.&nbsp; But the first day of spring comes and goes with more snow, more wind, and more of that damp, biting cold that creeps into your bones and wraps itself around your joints.&nbsp; I dream of sunlight and the green oasis of spring, but in the snow belt, "spring" is a broken promise.&nbsp; Winter is a wasteland, and March is a mirage, not an oasis.<br /><br />Today was like all the other days this week and last week and the weeks before that.&nbsp; Gray skies, icy wind, aching joints.&nbsp; But today, in the midst of that tedious sameness, seven men and one woman came to our house with an ambulance and took my grandmother away to the hospital.&nbsp; I stood there next to her place at the old oak table and watched them mill about our kitchen and pass in and out of her room.&nbsp; I heard them speaking to her as they lifted her tiny, frail body onto a gurney to carry her out of the house.&nbsp; When she passed, I did not say anything to her, and she did not say anything to me.&nbsp; She was caught up her pain, and, I suppose, so was I.&nbsp; I thought about rushing to her and kissing her as she went out.&nbsp; I thought about telling her I loved her.&nbsp; But I didn't.&nbsp; I just backed up to give the men room and watched her go.<br /><br />Then the door was closed and I sat down and felt tired.&nbsp; I felt something else too, iciness and bad feeling that made me stay home when my sister, parents, and uncle made their way to the hospital. &nbsp; I should have gone with them.&nbsp; Duty at least should have guided my feet to the door, but I was frozen, and it was hours before I understood what my cold feeling was.&nbsp; It was anger, painful and raw, that made me want to shout at her and curse her for becoming old and frail, for refusing to wear her hearing aids so that we all have to shout at her to be heard, for refusing to learn how to use her walker so she is unbalanced and vulnerable, for refusing to go see doctors, for refusing even to answer my mother's questions when we found her on the floor.&nbsp; I'm angry with her for not understanding what we've had to sacrifice for her because of duty, because of principle.&nbsp; And because of love.&nbsp; Three generations of us have organized our lives around her needs so she could stay in her home.&nbsp; But what else could we do?&nbsp; She is the matriarch.&nbsp; She is the quick-witted, beauty my grandfather fell in love with.&nbsp; She is the irascible, brilliant, sharp-tongued, and eccentric center of our family.&nbsp; She is the grandmother who was too bright, too uncompromising, too dignified to get old.&nbsp; And then she did.<br /><br />When I finally understood that my cold brooding feeling was anger, I felt ashamed too. I should have gone with my family to see her in the hospital, but I didn't.&nbsp; I couldn't.&nbsp; I'm not sure what's wrong with me.&nbsp; Probably, this time, she'll be okay.&nbsp; She'll come home again, and we'll continue to hover around her as if she were made of glass, and our days will resume their old pattern.&nbsp; For a little while, as routine does its work, I'll feel like time is an indefinite thing without boundaries and conclusions, but she's 96 and I'm not getting any younger either.&nbsp; I know, whether I can face it or not, how my grandmother's story will end.&nbsp; Each day brings the inevitability of her death closer.<br /><br />When that inevitable day comes, what will it mean?&nbsp; Beyond my mourning for her, it will alter our relationships with each other and with our home.&nbsp; When she is no longer at the center, and there is no more reason for us to gather together to orchestrate her care, will we also be changed?&nbsp; Perhaps it will mean that my uncles and other relatives will no longer come to this house where she reigns as Matriarch.&nbsp; And what of this house?&nbsp; Will it too pass away?&nbsp; Perhaps her final illness and death will mean the end of our multi-generational home where I've raised my children, and played with my pets, and tended my garden.&nbsp; It scares me to think that it is possible that I'll lose not just her, but the home I've shared with her.&nbsp; I always thought that every spring, I would have her roses and her althea and her forget-me-nots to remind me.&nbsp; Is it mean of me to wish this house and these gardens never existed if it means that I can't be here to love them?&nbsp;<br /><br />As a few of the ambulance crew fussed over my grandmother who lay in the bed in which she was born and which she shared with my grandfather through six decades of marriage, we chatted with one of the men waiting in the kitchen.&nbsp; He graduated from my high school and seemed to know everyone in my graduating class.&nbsp; Or rather, he seemed to know where they had gone to make a life for themselves.&nbsp; I haven't gone anywhere.&nbsp; I'm still in the same village where my ancestors settled two hundred years ago.&nbsp; But my job is two rural counties away and apart from my family, I know few people here in the village.&nbsp; When I speak of my town that I love, it is the town of my parents' and my grandparents' childhoods.&nbsp; The ambulance volunteer could tell me about my generation.&nbsp; The generations I know have already passed.&nbsp; As we travel around the village and town, I tell my children, "Your ancestors founded that church.&nbsp; They attended that one room schoolhouse.&nbsp; They farmed that land.&nbsp; They are buried in that cemetery."&nbsp;<br /><br />What do we owe the past?&nbsp; In a real sense, as an historian, I've dedicated myself to its preservation.&nbsp; In Grandma's way, she too has been a link to the past, not merely because she has lived almost a hundred years in this village, but because she has taken it upon herself as the mother of the family to keep the records and tell the stories.&nbsp; I have been learning to tell the stories too, but I'm always afraid.&nbsp; I am only a chronicler of her memories.&nbsp; I am not a witness.&nbsp; Fearful of my own future, I take comfort in holding fast to her past.&nbsp; The idea that the continuity of our lives might be disrupted, that I might be uprooted, terrifies me.<br /><br />I've always known, of course, that one day they will carry her away from me and that she will never come home again, but my heart never believed it.&nbsp; I guess today was the day that my heart finally began to catch on to that awful knowledge.&nbsp; She will die.&nbsp; She must die.&nbsp; This reality cannot be altered.&nbsp; It cannot be prayed, or hoped, or wished away.&nbsp; It cannot be ignored.&nbsp; Things cannot stay the same forever no matter how much we pretend that they can.&nbsp; I'm an historian.&nbsp; I should know by now that change is the partner of time.&nbsp; You can't have one without the other.&nbsp; I should be a grown-up and face it, but I want to stomp my feet and cry instead.&nbsp; I don't want this.&nbsp; I don't want change.&nbsp; Not today.&nbsp; I'd rather stay here frozen in this gray day, sad and worrisome as it is.&nbsp; March may be frozen and bleak.&nbsp; It may feel like an endless extension of a long, hard winter, but it always ends in April.&nbsp; Spring, like change itself, may take its time arriving, but it will come.&nbsp; I don't know what this spring will bring.&nbsp; Yesterday I couldn't wait for it to arrive, but, please God, my grandmother is in her winter and I've been sharing it with her.&nbsp; Let it last a little longer.&nbsp; As dark and cold and bitter as it is, I don't think I'm quite ready for it to be over.Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-14849597350017306682012-08-19T16:30:00.000-07:002012-08-20T09:36:14.433-07:00Corporate Discernment in which the Sense of the Meeting is that of an Insecure Adolescent Hoping to Stay Popular with the Other Cool Kids in the Room.The creative and destructive tensions between individual and corporate discernment among Friends have long interested me.&nbsp; It seems to me that the successful&nbsp;process of corporate discernment involves the act of deep listening, both to each other and to the Presence that moves among us.<br /><br />Deep listening&nbsp;is an art.&nbsp; It involves the ability to&nbsp;honor&nbsp;one's&nbsp;principles without shutting&nbsp;oneself off to new evidence or to new possibilities.&nbsp; It requires tenderness but not&nbsp;capitulation.&nbsp; It requires firmness but not rigidity.&nbsp; It involves applying enough compassion and imagination&nbsp;to allow us to stand outside of our own sense of attachment to our own&nbsp;subjective realities.&nbsp; It requires patience to stay grounded long enough&nbsp;to transcend the personal and cultural differences that obscure our spiritual kinship.<br /><br />Corporate discernment requires this deep, loving listening to our brothers and sisters so that we can remain in good and righteous relationship to&nbsp;them&nbsp;even as our individual ideas seem to struggle and strain for consideration.&nbsp; But corporate discernment, as much as it relies on our abilities to engage in loving dialogue with each other, is not, in the end, about you and me trying to get along.&nbsp; It is about you and me reaching out together to better understand the will of the Divine Presence.<br /><br />It is a remarkable thing, and one I would not have considered possible if I had not witnessed it myself.&nbsp; A&nbsp;room full of unique individuals could&nbsp;transcend their individuality to become a vehicle of adoration and obedience to a Holiness that embraces them all.&nbsp;&nbsp;Both silent worship and worshipful&nbsp;meetings with attention to the business of Friends require a&nbsp;discipline of hearing&nbsp;each other with love while&nbsp;keeping one ear tuned in toward the Divine Presence.&nbsp; In this way, what each of us may&nbsp;know of the Divine is&nbsp;magnified in a room full of other Friends&nbsp;tapping into that same Present Energy.&nbsp;<br /><br />In holding each other in this&nbsp;Light, we&nbsp;have the power&nbsp;to sit with the anger, the pain, the bitterness, the exuberance, the hopefulness of each of our individual human messages until&nbsp;such transitory&nbsp;things&nbsp;pass away and The Message, howevery stumbingly and imperfectly articulated,&nbsp;remains. There can be an exhilaration translated into&nbsp;solemn quiet tears in such moments.&nbsp;&nbsp;I have seen this many times among Friends as the room seems to collectively acknowledge that Something Good Has Happened Here.&nbsp;&nbsp;But from then, we come to the real human work of responding to that Message.&nbsp;Our relationship to the&nbsp;Spirit that moves us so powerfully and tenderly in a gathered&nbsp;meeting for worship does not end when we stand and shake one another's hands.&nbsp;At every step of action and reflection, we repeat our process. Slowly, deliberately, passionately...<br /><br />But sometimes it seems to go wrong. We make corporate decisions that can't possibly be a reflection of Divine Will (unless Divine Will calls us toward apathy, prejudice, power-mongering, greed, and a slothful service of convenience and convention). So how does that happen? Why do we crucify our prophets?<br /><br />I believe it is because in those times we are not faithful to our process but merely to maintaining the appearance of the process. <em> Discerning the will of the Presence is not the same as discerning the will of the group.</em>&nbsp; There are times when the group leans away from prophetic voices called to move us closer to the Divine will in favor of voices that call us to lean toward that which is comfortable, profitable, popular, or conventional.&nbsp; In these cases, the prophetic voices that arise in our midst are&nbsp;received not by a corporate body but by a room full of individuals who are choosing to be drawn toward the message, to remain neutral to it, or to resist it based on personal motivation. Those who resist it provide a counter-leadership even if&nbsp;their resistance to the prophetic message&nbsp;is silent. <br /><br />I do not condemn Friends for this.&nbsp; We are imperfect creatures, but our stumbling does not make us less beloved.&nbsp; I think that it is natural and normal for us to pass through this very limited human response to messages.&nbsp; It is perhaps even necessary for those of us who sit in the process of corporate discernment to allow ourselves to pass through our individual emotions and thoughts before we are able to draw more deeply into the Presence.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There is nothing inherently wrong with our individual perspectives, for&nbsp;they too are given to us as a&nbsp;tool for helping us understand the will of GOD.&nbsp; Our problem lies not in our individuality nor in unity with the group.&nbsp; Our problem lies when individuality&nbsp;or community are no longer&nbsp;the servants, but rather&nbsp;the masters of our understanding.&nbsp; Revelation does not always arrive with a clap of thunder.&nbsp; More often, perhaps, we may expect it after long and dull conversations, repetitions, emotional anxieties, and hard, hard work.<br /><br />I'd like to hold up the psychological and emotional components of corporate discernment. It seems to me that while we may be more skilled at acknowledging the <em>spoken</em> conflicts and compromises Friends engage in during the process of corporate discernment, we are not always aware of the underlying and<em> unspoken</em> emotional conversations that define our relationships to each other and to our Source.&nbsp; Even in silence we often project our intentions (so often personal and selfish) to our brothers and sisters even as we pay lip service to the process of corporate discernment.<br /><br />So much of communication is non-verbal.&nbsp; We read each other's faces and bodies.&nbsp; We can sense emotion.&nbsp;&nbsp;When we speak of the&nbsp;sense of the meeting, I believe we are often really speaking of sensitivity to the subtle, emotional feelings in a room. Many of us are weighing (albeit often subconsciously) the unspoken response of our neighbors to the messages we hear and speak. Even still bodies and faces speak loudly to those who have ears. They cast their disapproval into the energy of the room whether or not they say a word.<br /><br />&nbsp; I have wondered why we do not talk much about this. We seem to be aware&nbsp;that while&nbsp;our vocal and written conversations are&nbsp;helpful and community-building, they&nbsp;are also notional and therefore not a true substitute for relationship with the Divine. We know that we must be mindful of mistaking our words for <em>the Word</em>.&nbsp; We acknowledge that the sound and fury of&nbsp;human&nbsp;language&nbsp;may distract us from a truer Message. <br /><br />Well, there is fury in silence too. <br /><br />Why do we not also acknowledge that many of our silent, emotional interactions are also notional, arising out of collective fear and insecurity far more than out of tenderness toward the Divine Presence? Why do we not acknowledge that we are picking up on our f/Friends' feelings and attempting either to resist them or to make it right with them (even if that means turning away from what we are called to do?) <br /><br />That prickle of disapproval one feels in a room after a discomforting witness&nbsp;is as real a response&nbsp;as any angry speech.&nbsp; One feels if the silence that greets one's words is a welcoming and thoughtful silence or if it is icy and disapproving.&nbsp; The exchange of glances, the set of a jaw, a hardening distance in the eyes-- these things alarm us and distract us. <br /><br />Perhaps we mistake the desire to bury that angry human subtext as corporate discernment. I have seen the angry, although subtle energies of one person poison "corporate discernment" as Friends scrambled to balance their desire for friendship (with a small f) with their desire to serve a greater Ministry.&nbsp;&nbsp; In these cases, Friends seem to be saying, "<em>God forbid we offend this man! (and too bad if we offended God in the process.</em>)"&nbsp; We make idols of each other.&nbsp; One has money we cannot afford to lose.&nbsp; One has influence we do not dare challenge.&nbsp; Another pouts and makes us all feel lousy when she doesn't get her way.&nbsp; Still another launches into speeches we would rather not hear.&nbsp; How much easier it is to become people-pleasers rather than Truth Publishers.<br /><br />Quaker history is full of examples of prophets whose ideas were met only with scorn.&nbsp; It is full of examples of "corporate discernment" that claimed that God called not for equality, nor for peace, nor justice, nor love, nor integrity.&nbsp; Quaker history is full of examples of Friends declaring their loyalty to the status quo rather than to the Almighty.&nbsp; We have not always followed our Guide.&nbsp; <br /><br />I think, maybe, it all comes down to Integrity.&nbsp; We cannot be anything other than human, and therefore, we must be imperfect.&nbsp; But as imperfect as our faithful translations of the Living Word may be, they will so much more so if we are not honest with ourselves about our limitations.&nbsp; Do we believe that, of all human beings, Friends alone are capable of corporate discernment of the will of the Divine will without falling prey to our own unspoken dialogue of pride, pain, and foolishness?&nbsp; I believe that until we acknowledge that our words are not alone the vehicles of our voices, we will remain out of tune, and discord rather than harmony, will mark our community.Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-5807709265115156682012-08-08T11:39:00.002-07:002012-08-10T19:49:01.926-07:00Dipping My ToesI'm not particularly good at titles.&nbsp; In fact, I'm lousy at them.&nbsp; A more honest title for this blog post would be "Dipping My Toes in a Sea of Despair:&nbsp; A Melancholy Contemplation of a Depression Realized Incrementally."&nbsp; But that doesn't fit into the little space the blogger designers allotted to me.<br /><br />I'm also not particularly good at cheerfulness and positive thinking.&nbsp; I am not incapable of joy, but I&nbsp;do tend to anticipate troubles and tragedies.&nbsp; From childhood, I have found negativity to be a good personal policy.&nbsp; As a perfectionist, I would study for four to six hours for every test I took.&nbsp; I'd all but memorize the readings assigned to me by reading each of them five to ten times, and I'd check and recheck my work.&nbsp; So great was my fear of making a mistake that I would jump up in the middle of the night to check my work one more time.&nbsp; Yet, even after all that preparation, I always expected to fail and find myself humiliated.&nbsp; I figured that to expect failure and humiliation prepares one for that horrid eventuality and if, for whatever reason,&nbsp;one did not fail and was not humiliated,&nbsp;one could enjoy&nbsp;one's non-failure as a&nbsp;lovely little surprise.&nbsp; Of course, I should point out that "failure" to me was any grade lower than 97%.&nbsp; 100% or higher was good.&nbsp; 98%-99% &nbsp;was a B (and a bit of a disappointment).&nbsp; 97% was a C and anything lower made me so ashamed I could hardly stand it.<br /><br />Adulthood changed some of this obsessive brooding over grades.&nbsp; In adulthood, I became a mother, experienced the deaths of loved ones, and learned that I too was vulnerable to illness and accident.&nbsp; My tragedy-focus has shifted to the fear of death rather than to the fear of failure.&nbsp;I still fear failure very much, but I fear death and disability much more.&nbsp; It seems that now I'm also beginning to fear the aging process.&nbsp; I've begun to realize that when someone mentions "the young people", they are no longer referring to me.&nbsp; This is astonishing and upsetting.&nbsp; I no longer look at myself in the mirror when it can be helped because the person I see there is decreasingly recognizable to me as myself and I'd rather not look at her until through diet, exercise, and some miraculous lotions, she gets herself back in shape.<br /><br />But all of this is not what I started out to say in this blog post.&nbsp; I meant to discuss despair and how I've recently begun to dip my toes in a pool of it.&nbsp; Usually it is just my toes although occasionally I&nbsp;get lazy&nbsp;and my whole foot slips in as well.&nbsp; When such a thing happens, I try to back away and have a snack or watch some Star Trek or Doctor Who to reset myself through distraction.&nbsp; This is a quick fix and like most quick fixes, it doesn't last for long.&nbsp; Soon enough I find myself inching back toward that dark pool and itching to slide into it.<br /><br />It is a terrible temptation, this pool of despair.&nbsp; I want to dive into it headlong.&nbsp; Very much.&nbsp; I'm so tired of fighting that temptation.&nbsp; It would be lovely to just relax into those waters and allow myself to be carried away.&nbsp; It takes ever so much energy to keep my game face on and pretend that somehow, in some way, I am not being broken bit by bit by all the horrors around us all the time.&nbsp; Do you suppose there is some committee of demonic people in a room brainstorming new varieties of fantastic injustice?&nbsp; I'd like to think there is because to believe that normal, mundane&nbsp;human beings are this cruel to one another is just too heart-breaking to contemplate.&nbsp; Yet, try as I may, I find myself doubting that there is a demonic committee bent on manifesting the heights of human despair.&nbsp; Instead, very sadly, there is just the human race, just the lot of us, contributing a vast diversity of crappiness to the human condition.<br /><br />I am very tired of straining against the brute force of injustice, nastiness, violence, and cruelty.&nbsp; I often feel like I'm struggling alone.&nbsp; Perhaps you know the feeling.&nbsp; Have you ever read something especially despicable and wondered if maybe you were going crazy?&nbsp; I try to remember, even as my mouth soundlessly forms the liberal lament, "What the f@ck?!!", that others share my morose and outraged assessments of the loathsomeness of the human condition.&nbsp; I try to remember that just as I am not alone in my anger, neither am I alone in my attempts to struggle against what seems like the inevitability of our own self-destruction.&nbsp; Lots of us are straining and we're all pulling together in that giant tug-o-war over that dark pool.&nbsp; <br /><br />I try to remind myself of all the activists, intellectuals, artists, teachers, healers, parents, lovers, and humanitarians who are struggling along with me.&nbsp; I try to remember, but it is hard.&nbsp; I keep reading about arrests and intimidations, beatings, dismissals, and demotions.&nbsp; I continue shouting out the truth to which I've committed myself.&nbsp; "Love! Love! Love!" I keep calling out, and "Justice, Compassion, Peace!"&nbsp; I don't know if anyone is listening.&nbsp; My students seem to appreciate the message in the days that they belong in my classroom, but their ability to carry their own messages into the world is doubtful.&nbsp; They are working class people and already pretty disempowered and vulnerable.&nbsp; I don't harbor any delusion that I'm teaching a new generation of activists.&nbsp; If they can keep a roof over their head and find money to feed their children, it is about all they can expect.<br /><br />The pool of despair beckons because it would be nice to just lose myself in it and surrender to a certain knowledge that there is nothing I can do.&nbsp; The news is full of horrors so insane and absurd that I often think they are some kind of joke at first.&nbsp; "Is this a real headline?" I ask myself hopefully.&nbsp; "Maybe this is from one of those fake news&nbsp;sources that publishes absurdist stories for comedic effect."&nbsp; Except the fake news stories are no longer as absurd as the actual news stories and no one seems to be laughing anymore.<br /><br />Sometimes I stop watching or reading the news to try to save my sanity.&nbsp; That is only partially effective because I continue to run up against injustice whenever I speak to acquaintances, friends, and relatives.&nbsp; It seems that every single day I hear another story of the petty humiliations and discouraging injustices that are the regular fare offered up by both public and private institutions.&nbsp; Being alive in the western world seems to require immersion in a Kafkaesque nightmare of paperwork, regulations, debt, and broken dreams.&nbsp; <br /><br />I won't get into my own personal stories of grinding, debilitating, petty injustice.&nbsp; My own troubles, though interesting to me, would probably be tedious to you.&nbsp; I'll just say that I'm an adjunct and as such, I believe there is a special place in hell for college administrators.&nbsp; Also, my husband has just learned that he will be laid off from his dream job (or rather the crappy entry-level seasonal job that might possibly turn into his dream job)-- on his birthday.&nbsp; So that's a bit of a bummer too.&nbsp; We knew he would be laid off, but they had assured us that he would be able to work through the winter.&nbsp; Now they tell him that the money in the budget allocated for allowing low-paid guys to clean toilets and paint fences is needed elsewhere.&nbsp; Similarly, it is apparent that my college does not have enough money to pay their adjuncts a salary that allows&nbsp;us to make payments on&nbsp;our student loans.&nbsp; Certainly, there is no money for adjuncts or seasonal&nbsp;federal workers to have health insurance.&nbsp; Colleges and the governments have<em> so</em> little money.&nbsp; That's why they can barely afford to invade multiple foreign countries and give tax breaks to billionaires or&nbsp;build useless stadiums and hire more college administrators with enormous salaries.&nbsp; But I digress.<br /><br />We were talking about despair.&nbsp; It seems that fish and aquatic life are dying off enmasse.&nbsp; And so are little kids in many parts of the world.&nbsp; Hell, the entire effing planet is burning, baking, drowning, and withering.&nbsp; Where climate change isn't picking us off, crazy men with automatic weapons are.&nbsp; Or maybe you'll be lucky and survive all that and only have to worry about poverty, homelessness, or a lifetime of debt slavery.&nbsp; <br /><br />Why can't I stop brooding?&nbsp; It could just be my age.&nbsp; I've been reading up on the topic and it seems that Gen Xers are more likely to be despairing and to commit or attempt suicide.&nbsp; My sister and I have always referred to our generation as "Generation F@cked."&nbsp; Our parents lived in difficult times, but believed they could usher in an era of peace, love, and progressive change.&nbsp; I grew up on those promises and was nurtured on my parents' faith in the principles of equality, justice, and compassion.&nbsp; But I matured into a world marked by recession, warfare, climate destruction, and the rise of the Religious Right.&nbsp; <br /><br />So, I'm tired.&nbsp; I think I've always been tired.&nbsp; I can't remember a time when I was not tired.&nbsp; It feels like we are slipping into Hell and I'm awfully&nbsp;exhausted by&nbsp;clinging to the precipice.&nbsp; Wouldn't it be nice to just let go?<br /><br />What does this have to do with Paganism or Quakers?&nbsp; I don't know.&nbsp; I guess they aren't helping me much.&nbsp; In fact, both groups are currently on my list of "Groups of People Who at One Time Offered a Sense of Intellectual and Spiritual Promise in an Otherwise Degrading Life, but Who, In My Current State of Despondency,&nbsp;Disappoint Me So Much That I Feel Like Crying When I Think About Them:&nbsp; A Topic for Future Blog Post Discussion."&nbsp; See?&nbsp; I told you that I'm lousy with titles.<br /><br />(Also, here's a video of a&nbsp;song parody&nbsp;and accompanying article that is slightly related to this topic inasmuch as it is about people my age feeling bitterly disappointed and angsty.)<a href="http://music.yahoo.com/blogs/video-gaga/not-young-parody-video-feels-love-201900885.html">http://music.yahoo.com/blogs/video-gaga/not-young-parody-video-feels-love-201900885.html</a><br /><br />Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3585969723728384313.post-66143013820557737782012-07-29T17:38:00.003-07:002012-08-08T10:33:07.830-07:00A Rant: Professional Identity: Homemaker<strong>Warning:&nbsp; This is a rant.&nbsp; This is not a measured, spiritual, uplifting piece.&nbsp; This post is written in anger and is therefore somewhat self-pitying and abrasive.&nbsp; It is probably also offensive.&nbsp; You have been warned</strong>.<br /><br /><br />What is my profession?&nbsp; I am a homemaker and a homeschooling mother.&nbsp; I am also a college professor, but this is my second job.&nbsp; I do it only because my debt requires a second income.&nbsp; I would stop teaching in a New York minute if my financial obligations were mitigated.<br /><br />When people ask me what I do, I assess their ability to damage me and then I answer accordingly.&nbsp; If they are not in a position to bully me or my children, I tell them that I am a homemaker and that I also teach.&nbsp; If they are in a position to bully me or my children, I tell them that I am a college professor.&nbsp; People who hear that I am a college professor are doctors, nurses, school officials, and others who may use their professions as excuses to become very busily and judgmentally involved in others' lives.<br /><br />I have found that when I first mention that I am a homemaker, I get a variety of negative responses.<br /><br />Response #1:&nbsp; Condescension.&nbsp; "Isn't that nice!&nbsp; I wish I could stay home with my children, but I just couldn't afford it.&nbsp; It must be so nice to be home with them all day.&nbsp; You must have your hands full!"<br /><br />Related to this response is their tendency to then treat me like I'm a&nbsp;half-wit.&nbsp; I notice this particularly in doctor's offices.&nbsp; When they see me as a homemaker, they are inattentive, rude, and bossy.&nbsp;&nbsp;As soon as they see&nbsp;on my charts that I also have&nbsp;a doctorate and teach in a college, they adjust their tone and vocabulary&nbsp;to indicate that they now respect my intelligence and my ability to make informed decisions.<br /><br />Response #2:&nbsp; Judgment:&nbsp; "You have betrayed the feminist movement&nbsp;and/or are&nbsp;wasting your education."<br /><br />Sometimes the reaction really has been that blatant and nasty.&nbsp; Most of the time, however, it is more subtle.&nbsp; People give me a great deal of advice on how to get a job teaching in a university.&nbsp; They encourage me to network, apply myself, and become more assertive.&nbsp; <br /><br />Of course, the two responses often come together.&nbsp; People tell me how "nice" it must be to stay home with the kids and then give me advice to help me escape that unfortunate situation.&nbsp; They tell me that they are so impressed with my ability to (my goodness!) write, teach, and look after children.&nbsp; My, my!&nbsp; So busy!&nbsp; They must think I'm a complete innocent if they think I believe they're actually praising me for staying at home in an unpaid job.&nbsp; <br /><br />I study the history of domesticity.&nbsp; I know that it doesn't make me somehow "special."&nbsp; I'm not unaware of its changing status, and I'm not likely to believe that somehow my choice to be a homemaker makes me unusually patient and self-sacrificing.&nbsp; The job undertaken by most women until the most recent generations is certainly challenging, but to gush about it as if it is unusual and soooo nice, is a bit much.&nbsp; I know that tone.&nbsp; It is the same tone people used to speak to me when I was a child.&nbsp; "Well, good for you!&nbsp; You know how to write your own name.&nbsp; What a smart girl!"<br /><br />So here's the point of this post, fair readers:&nbsp; If you happen to speak to a homemaker, try not to be condescending and judgmental.&nbsp; It is a real job, a real calling, and it takes real time and energy.&nbsp; I am not lazy or unskilled.&nbsp; I am not doing this because I can't make it in the "real world."&nbsp; I actually mean to be where I am.&nbsp; I&nbsp; also do not need ego-stroking.&nbsp; I'm not ashamed of being a homemaker and don't need your praise or pity.&nbsp; <br /><br />Don't tell me that you would do if you had the money.&nbsp; That's especially insulting to a person in a low-income family.&nbsp; Relatively speaking, while I am more privileged than many people living in poverty, I am very likely far less privileged than you are.&nbsp; My spouse is a blue-collar worker and we have lived from hand to mouth our entire marriage.&nbsp; It takes some doing, let me tell you, to stay home.&nbsp; If you are going to tell me that you would stay home but you just don't have the money, you'd sure as hell better hide your vehicle (or your clothes, or vacations, furnishings, jewelry, etc.) that cost more than my entire household.&nbsp; It isn't nice to tempt Quakers to violence.&nbsp; <br /><br />The thing is that I respect and admire&nbsp;people who work outside the home.&nbsp; I see that choice as challenging, interesting, and important.&nbsp;&nbsp; It would be nice if such&nbsp;people felt the same way about my choice, but if they don't, I much prefer that they keep their mouths closed than respond to me by bullying me, judging me, or by gushing saccharine insincerities in my direction.<br /><br />Hysteryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02044678910937934731noreply@blogger.com9